The 76th Hunger Games: Delicate Shards
by angels entwined
Summary: All of us witnessed the Mockingjay sprout her wings and drop the torch that set Panem ablaze with rebellion. But unfortunately, the tide of death came and doused that; now, we will see 24 tributes enter the arena of glass. They will watch as everything shatters. The aftermath will be only shards. *CLOSED*
1. The Nightlock Decree

_Hello! I'm angels entwined, otherwise known as Angel, Angelica, Twilly, or Twine, and I'm writing a SYOT, if you couldn't tell. I just have a few rules – not too many._

_No volunteering for siblings or family or out of the goodness of their heart. I'm sorry, but it's just so cliché and I really don't want it in my story._

_I don't accept more than two tributes per person. You don't need to make a bloodbath. My style of writing pretends bloodbaths are background characters, and there will be eight of them, so I ignore them. Upon having 16 tributes, I close the SYOT._

_I don't make reservations._

_If you use any tribute form but my own, I will PM you an apology politely refusing to use your tribute. I don't work with people who can't abide by my rules. If you don't understand them, ask!_

_And last, but most important: **I only accept tributes by PM. **I do respect the rules of this site (and don't want my story deleted), and your tribute must be PMed. Tributes by review will be ignored. Tribute form below._

_Oh, yes, and I don't own the Hunger Games. ^_^_

_-angels entwined_

* * *

**Tribute Form**

Name:

Nickname (if possible):

Gender:

Age (12-18):

District:

Backup District:

Appearance _(at least _2 sentences)_:_

Personality (_at least _6 sentences):

Family:

Friends/Relationships:

Job (if applicable):

Reaped or Volunteered:

Reaction/Motive:

Training Strategy:

Training Session:

Training Score:

Interview Outfit:

Interview Strategy (include excerpt):

Strengths (Max 6):

Weaknesses (Min 3):

Fears (phobias, at least one – e.g. arachnophobia, acrophobia, etc.):

Games Strategy:

Allies (Y/N):

Token (if any):

View of Killing?:

* * *

"_Broken glass. It's just like glitter, isn't it?"_

_-Pete Doherty_

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who lived in District Twelve. She was beautiful, and she was formidable.

Her life was an interesting one, but it only served one purpose.

Who cared if she was one of only two hunters in District Twelve? Who cared if her district partner was the first to declare the object of his love on national television? Who cared if she was District Twelve's first volunteer?

_Who cared? _

It wasn't until that she held out a handful of glistening purple berries that she stopped being a speck of dust. When she threatened the President, the Gamemakers, the entire Capitol, it was then that she sprouted her wings and set a spark.

Her purpose was to bring the entire country crashing down.

If anyone took a stroll through Panem back then, the first sight that would meet their eyes would be smoking ruins. Fire and death and violence – Panem was no longer a country. Divided, weak, and bloodthirsty, both sides were led by presidents with an agenda. An ulterior motive.

No one cared about the Mockingjay until her spark became an inferno. Destruction blazed through the country.

And then, like a phoenix, something rose out of the chaos and slaughtered the rebels. _Something. _Katniss Everdeen was assassinated, and the rebellion collapsed upon itself.

The Capitol had its grip upon Panem again, firmer than ever, and things returned to normal.

Blood had bloomed across the ground, substituting the rivers with crimson liquid. Buildings had swayed until their supports could take no more. Cries had filled the air and oxygen had become the stench of death.

No, the new ruler of Panem knew this could never happen again.

Today, a solemn president read out these words. It is time to forget the Rebellion of Fire. Today, Panem will hear, see, taste, smell, and touch the reminder that they are being punished.

This cannot happen a third time, and a slip of paper will seal the fate of our tributes as their mouths open wide in screams. They will enter an arena that appears so beautiful and delicate they could never think it would harm them – yet also an arena where blood will be shed, where everything will shatter and everything is cold and stainless. Mechanical and confusing.

They will enter an arena of glass.

This will be their fault, our fault.

Let the Seventy-sixth Annual Hunger Games begin.

_-From the Nightlock Decree_


	2. Petty Rumors

_Hello, darlings! Here is the tribute list, in this chapter._

_I don't own the Hunger Games (or most of the characters, but do you really want me to rattle off all the pennames in the author's note when they're right in the list?)._

_We are officially closed. The spots with a - are bloodbaths._

_-angels entwined_

* * *

Tribute List _(edit: we are officially closed!)_**_  
_**

District One

F: Spark Flicken, _our little infinity_

M: Sage Le Bel, _Hoprocker_

District Two:

F: Aisis Erin, _irmaida_

M: Moshe Hemlock, _irmaida_

District Three:

F: Isis "Issy" Leith, _chocolat kisses_

M: -

District Four:

F: -

M: -

District Five:

F: Antebellum Greyson, _toppling from the blue_

M: Aaralyn Shimmerhill, _Blue Eyes Arch Angel_

District Six:

F: Evie Wolfe, _PerfectingImperfections_

M: -

District Seven:

F: Magnolia "Maggie" Aspen, _angels entwined_

M: Garret "Gar" Fox, _DCdreamer55_

District Eight:

F: Alice Marina Potts, _DCdreamer55_

M: Tarson Keers, _Buttons301_

District Nine:

F: -

M: -

District Ten:

F: Colleen Reyna, _AnimeGirlieGirl_

M: Zyan Opheeus, _Gallantgrove_

District Eleven:

F: Towhee Burdon, _Hoprocker_

M: Vence Temmore, _Gallantgrove_

District Twelve:

F: -

M: -

* * *

The light that left their eyes. The blood rippling across the ground. The adrenaline that pulsed through her veins as she strode around the clean white room, instructing her assistants in cool tones.

Marquesa Fournier was craving death, and the other Gamemakers saw it as distinctly as they saw the fire and darkness of war.

The other Gamemakers had heard quite a few disturbing. . ._rumors _about Marquesa. She had been a commander of the hovercrafts sent out to destroy the rebels, and she had had a lot of experience with battle and bloodlust long before she was appointed as the Head Gamemaker. Possibly the rumor that disturbed them most was that she had been released a few years ago from the Capitolite Asylum for the Mentally Unstable.

The gleam in her icy blue eyes did nothing to quench the flames of human imagination. Each Gamemaker was playing around with the vague whispers they'd heard, their minds creating finely etched details about the Head on their own. Most of them were new at the job, as most of the Gamemakers before the Rebellion of Fire had been killed, and Marquesa was evidently not pleased by this, despite being new to the job herself. The difference was they didn't know the hunger for violence she did.

"Where is the tribute list?" she asked, her eyes darting around.

"The deliverer hasn't arrived yet, ma'am," a woman named Columbine answered politely, but she seemed to be trying to shrink in her seat. The room was mainly a circle of desks at which each Gamemaker sat, their posture straight and eyes alert. A blue hologram rippled noiselessly in the center, hovering just above a polished white table with a projector on it.

Marquesa curled her lip in distaste. "Very well." She had worked on her arena for months, lovingly drawing blueprints with a precise hand and inspecting her plans with a sharp eye. Her dark hair was in an impeccable, tight bun, and she wore a formal-looking red suit. She'd prepared for the Seventy-sixth Games painstakingly, staring at glowing holograms for days on end. The circles under her eyes were covered with makeup. The least that everyone else could do was provide the names of her tributes.

She turned to the projector as she walked toward the middle of the circle. Everything about her was calculated - her strides even and deliberate, her words formal and matter-of-fact. Her fierce desire to get her Games started was carefully contained, but everyone still watched her with a kind of unease.

_I am working with a cowardly and nervous crew, _she thought with disgust. _I will be having a word with t__he president. Next year, I will handpick my Gamemakers._

She flicked a switch on the projector, and a picture of her arena appeared. The pride she would normally feel was promptly squashed. She kept her mind empty, focused on the matter at hand.

"We have worked on this for a-" _Facts. Specific times, _she reminded herself. "-for several months." She cursed herself for stuttering, though any rational person wouldn't call anything so cold and confident "stuttering." "But that will not matter if the tributes are not handled properly. We have secured our mutts and tied up all our loose ends. Be ready."

"Yes, ma'am." The room's occupants (excluding Marquesa) spoke in unison, knowing any lack of an answer would cue a sharp inquiry as to why.

Marquesa scanned the faces of her coworkers, her gaze penetrating. She did not care what the president, the Capitol, or Panem thought of her Games. She did not care what her Gamemakers thought. She cared about _her _standards - it did not matter if the entire city was cheering with a sadistic, bloodthirsty glint in their eyes at her Games. If the first Games since the second rebellion did not pass her standards, she would fail.

She would make this Games a success, even if she had to go out into the arena and tell the tributes what to do herself.

"Still anxious?"

This time, no one dared answer.

Marquesa threw back her head and laughed, a slightly insane sound echoing off the walls. The Gamemakers' eyes were glued to her. _Inexperienced fools._

"I do not see how those petty, careless pieces of gossip are relevant to the task at hand," Marquesa said icily, returning to her usual demeanor, but more venom than normal was in her words. "_My _Gamemakers do not care about gossip. They care about the Games. . .don't they?"

She left the room, slamming the door shut behind her.


	3. Forgetting Memories

_I'm so sorry for not updating, but I couldn't think of what to write. I've already started writing the reapings, don't worry._

_This is just a filler. Also, the tribute's list perfectly up-to-date; it's still open. This is also perfectly short because I don't want to delay updating and it's a filler._

_I don't own anything!_

_-angels entwined_

* * *

**The Capitol, 10:34 PM**_  
_

The world was shimmering with color that night in the Capitol. Lights flickered and twirled, glowing brightly. The edges of every silhouette was too sharp, the night air was perfumed so it no longer stung the lungs of anyone running through the city. It was strangely unnatural, but still one of the most beautiful feats of nature Italia Brownstone had ever seen.

She felt an especially cold breeze wash over her face as she wound her scarf more tightly over her neck, remembering the cool and precise hands of her mother as her fingers moved swiftly, snipping off parts of her hair when she was younger.

Her face tightened, remembering blood and flashes of fire and bullets hurtling through the air. She always tried to empty her mind, like her sister did, but it never worked. Memories burned inside of her - an agony that always seemed fresh and new every time she thought of her family.

"You look ridiculous in that getup," Gracelle remarked, barely looking up as she rifled through a series of papers. She looked professional and stern at her desk, her brown hair (still streaked with orange from the last time she had dyed it) twisted up in a bun quite plain for someone who used to be obsessed with her appearance. She lacked the charisma and social ability Italia did, and was strangely unimposing, but everyone had never doubted her as the president.

"It's cold," Italia said, turning to the open door. The drafts coming in were unusually icy for this time of the year, she observed, bundling up in her winter clothes. She flicked a strand of hair out of her mousy brown eyes. It was impossible to blend in when she lived in the Capitol these days - the Capitolites were already anticipating the 76th, their eyes glinting for that oh-so-familiar thirst for blood.

The Capitol was her family, Italia reminded herself. Her lips curved up in a slight smile, always so plain but always so extraordinary.

Gracelle watched Italia as she left, scratching her pen softly against the paper. She didn't type - her handwriting was the loopy, fancy kind, and she saved it for important documents. This time, she was writing a speech for the 76th.

She didn't remember the corpses of her family the way Italia did, limp on the floor in pools of blood. She couldn't see the arrows piercing their flesh, or the smallest of cries of pain as they lay dying upon the floor. Italia's likability would be wasted upon living in the past.

Gracelle lifted the pen, knowing she would leave a too-big blot of ink if she wasn't careful.

No. Just focus on her task. The Mockingjay was long dead.

Get her task done.

She inclined her head toward the paper, remembering the body of a huntress wreathed in flames and sealed in a marble coffin. She would remember that; she treasured it.

She began to write.


	4. Arguments and Controversy

_So. . .I've finally gotten energy to start writing the reapings. . .sort of (this is my third draft). The filler I wrote yesterday I had to practically force out of myself. But anyway, I must be getting past writer's block! I'm taking two chapters to cover the reapings, because let's all face it – no one cares that much about reapings except to know tribute basics. _

_Instead of dragging it out because I could never be able to update frequently, I'll do this – 8 tributes watch the reapings of the other 8 tributes. So, Character A would watch the recap of Character B's reaping, and Character C would watch Character D's reaping. I've got 16 tributes – 4 tributes watching 4 recaps a chapter. _

_I don't own anything. -sadface-_

_-angels entwined_

* * *

_"Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like." _  
_― Lemony Snicket_

Maggie Aspen half-fell, half-sat on the nearest chair, checking the texture. Velvet – she knew the feel of it. A soft blue. Blue - what a beautiful color. "When is the reaping recap coming on?"

No one answered, though Maggie could tell there were at least two other people in the room. It wasn't really that hard to figure out what was furniture and what was a human being, even with her blurred eyesight. Colors seemed to swirl chaotically at the slightest movement, causing a headache, but she could usually tell furniture wouldn't be moving of its own accord.

"In a bit," the escort – Azura, Maggie remembered her name because it was similar to a color – told her vaguely. She sounded unnaturally chirpy; Maggie decided to color her voice yellow, like a canary. She colored everything. "In the meantime, enjoy the luxuries the Capitol has to offer! Crystal chandeliers, gourmet food, silk and satin. . ."

Just as Azura finished her list, the TV flickered on ("Ah! Just in time!") and both tributes turned to watch.

The Capitol seal appeared with a flourish, and Maggie heard her district partner (wasn't his name Garret?) mutter something quite unflattering about it. She ignored him, unfazed, and watched the TV.

She watched the District Two reapings, ignoring District One; District One was as sparkly as the train, and that was all she cared about. Beauty and colors.

Maggie saw District Two with a slightly startled glance. Even if it was just a TV, she could see the far more grim and serious air hanging about it. She bit her lip, just as the escort there (she was barely able to tell the escorts were human, they were so _colorful) _slipped a piece of paper out of the bowl and read out a name.

She didn't hear the name, because the crowd was suddenly surging with a frantic mass of boys, all of them shouting "I volunteer!" and running toward the stage. She pressed her hands against her temples. She couldn't stand chaos or loud noise or anything that made her want to focus. Whenever she tried to focus, she earned a headache for her effort. . .

_Be still! _she screamed internally, which only made it worsen. _I. . .can't. . ._

She finally saw the hazy silhouette of a dark-haired boy scramble onstage, bellowing that he would volunteer, that he would go to the Games. The other volunteers were screeching horrible, horrible things at him, which he looked to be ignoring. The escort seemed flustered by the mayhem as the boys lunged at the stage, restrained by the Peacekeepers, making Maggie think of a sea of victims near drowning scrabbling at a lifeboat, pulled back by sharks.

Something red pounded behind her eyes, and she winced, about to take her eyes off the screen when the successful volunteer announced his name. "Moshe Hemlock!"

The moment Moshe said his name, someone else in the audience screamed, _"NO!"_

The other boys stopped as two people - adults, by their height - shoved their way quite rudely through the crowd, frantic and calling for the volunteer on the stage, saying that he was their son and he _couldn't go-_

_"Yes, I can!" _he yelled right back at them, and Maggie buried her head in her knees at the noise as Azura and Garret cast slightly worried glances her way, but they were mainly focused on the TV, absorbed in the verbal battle between parents and son.

_"You're our son!" _the father declared with such vehemence the boy appeared to falter for a moment.

Maggie froze. _She knew that voice._

Suddenly, she flashed back to her least favorite day when she was nine years old. Two people, a man and a woman wrapped in winter clothes - cozy parkas and hand-knitten scarves that Maggie admired the colors of - had come to her family's house in the Victor's Village. She had been playing in the backyard, pretending to string up juice cartons on the clothesline with rectangles cut out to resemble doors, sticking her dolls in them. She'd wanted to call it "_ Kingdom," and was deciding on a name when she'd heard her mother scream and had run in to see a flash of metal (a kitchen knife, she'd found out later) protruding out of her father's chest.

Her father. The victor. _Not. _

Her mother had insisted the man and woman had killed her husband, but no one had believed her. The authorities already believed Maggie, a child who could be described as spending most of her life in a daydreaming trance, was completely dotty. Madness was genetic, they'd claimed. Her mother had gone straight to the asylum.

Hatred flared inside her, tearing her apart. Hatred was against her nature, but the flaws of humanity were not.

All she could think was that while Moshe Hemlock could yell and yell at his parents about how they didn't understand and he wanted to win and he could do it, _thank you very much, _he was going into the Games with a tribute with a mind that remembered the puddles of blood and a wretched scream, a mind that was already set.

* * *

"_HOW DARE YOU CALL OUT MY NAME?"_

Sage Le Bel and his district partner, Spark, were eating lunch on the train, with both of the District One tributes nestled quite comfortably in huge, crimson red armchairs, when they were cut off in watching the recaps by a loud shriek of indignation.

The girl onscreen was zoomed in on by the camera as a commentator indicated her name being Antebellum Greyson. "Her father is District Five's richest businessman, ahead of even the mayor," he was rattling off, apparently attempting to make himself heard over Antebellum _("HOW DARE YOU!"). _"Henderson Greyson, who owns approximately one-third of the power plants and factories-"

Antebellum's volume wasn't decreasing, so the commentator had to speak more loudly. The District One escort sniffed and lifted her chin proudly, making a snide remark on how _unorganized _everyone was being about the Games.

Sage didn't hear it, because just then Antebellum screamed, _"I __DEMAND A LAWYER!" _and was yanked off the stage by Peacekeepers, as she proceeded to throw her purse at the escort. It instead missed and hit the reaping bowl, which promptly shattered the moment it met contact with the ground.

"Filthy mongrels!" she shouted, and at that, she vanished into the Justice Building with her district partner trailing behind her.

Sage was put in mind of his brother – Saffron - at the last words, but winced immediately, tucking away that memory.

With a wry smile, he commented, "What a charming girl. . ."

"I know," Spark agreed. She paused and added flatly, "Not really. I mean, did you see her purse? It's _so _yesterday! Can you believe that?" Her voice took on a more chirpy tone as she went on. "And the reaping clothes she was wearing? I bet Iridescence Trillian could do better than that! Seriously? I. . ."

Sage knew that tone; he'd heard it many, many times before. Nevertheless, he adjusted his glasses and pretended to listen intently as Spark carried on a monologue about fashion. After a while, the escort joined in, and they got into a heated debate on it, so Sage decided to politely retire to his private compartment as soon as the reaping recaps hit District Twelve.

On the way there, he bumped into one of the few remaining mentors left – a tall, imposing woman named Heaven Trillian.

"Have you seen Spark?" Heaven asked brusquely, looking down at Sage with a flicker of distaste before he could apologize.

Sage arched an eyebrow questioningly. "The dining room, it seems. Why?"

"A word with her," Heaven said shortly. "About _my _children, and certain opportunity-stealing little. . ."

Her tone was ominous, but Sage shrugged it off as Heaven stomped toward the dining room and made his way toward his compartment, swinging the door open and plopping on the bed. The sheets were the color of snow, but the lights of the chandelier hanging above washed over it, leaving a delicate shade of yellow.

Sage took out the small photograph in his pocket and inspected it with a hint of wistfulness. When his hour had been up in the Justice Building, he had been about to leave with a bewildered-looking and frenzied Peacekeeper found him – saying he'd searched for him for quite a long time in the maze of corridors – and gave him the photo, with a note from his mother. It surprised him, as his mother was usually too sick to go to the reaping, especially with the stress that came from the lingering threat of her children going to the Games.

He studied the photograph carefully, even though so much light emitted from the fixtures the gleam of the tiny silver frame was nearly blinding. The Le Bels – Saffron, his mother, his stepfather, and him – were standing on a beach, with large blue waves crashing against the shore. Pale pink-and-brown seashells dotted the sand, and the sun shone far more radiantly than anywhere else in District One on polluted days.

Sage knew it wasn't actually the beach, because District One had no beach; they'd been standing in front of a huge screen with scenery projected onto it. Monsieur Le Bel had insisted upon it, because Saffron was being sent to the Career academy and they needed a photo. Eventually, Sage's mother insisted on a family photo, much to the annoyance of the photographer, who had been badgered repeatedly by Monsieur Le Bel about quality.

Sage glanced at Monsieur Le Bel, who looked sullen and unhappy in the photo. He saw a pen on the desk and contemplated inking over his stepfather's face.

No, he decided. He couldn't leave the picture blotted with ink.

With a sigh, he set the photo on the dresser, just as he heard Spark start arguing with Heaven.

* * *

As Spark chatted _on _and _on _and _on _with the escort (Monique? Mona? Something like that – she'd abbreviate her "Mo"), she was beginning to find acting like she had the brightness of a lightbulb without batteries was more tiring when someone was bothering to listen and didn't know her in the least.

She tried to keep an eye out for the tributes, though unlike Antebellum, none of them had really been screeching and throwing purses, or if they had, she'd missed it. She put on the false pretense of having to swallow the enormous bite of chocolate cake she'd put on her plate. One of the disadvantages of having a long-term facade of utter brainlessness was spending more time eating because she was talking so much between bites.

The escort was quiet a moment, also taking a piece of chocolate cake, then pointed to the TV just before she was going to take a mouthful of fudge and toffee. "Isn't that tribute just pathetic?" she said with a slight smirk, one that reminded Spark disturbingly of Ivory Trillian's.

Upon thinking Ivory's name, Spark's jaw tightened so much she almost choked. She reprimanded herself silently, turning to the TV to pretend interest when she was really trying to recover.

A small, round-faced girl with dark auburn pigtails and bright brown eyes stood on the stage, constantly swiping at her face to get rid of the tears shining on it and trying to pass it off as casually flicking strands of hair away.

"Look at that, you wouldn't believe how many times I've seen that expression," the escort said snootily, sounding as if she'd just appointed herself Spark's newest best friend. Spark silently prayed to whatever deity there could be that it wouldn't happen.

"Crying! And that grimace!" Mo clucked. She was referring to the mix of a strained smile, an angry scowl, and the typical expression of shock and sadness most tributes from outlying districts wore upon being reaped that the girl wore. "Her name's Towhee Burdon, if you didn't hear," Mo said helpfully. "Us escorts-" (she said this with a slightly superior air that Spark found irksome) "-receive information about the tributes shortly after the reapings."

The same commentator from Antebellum's tantrum, who Spark found out to be a Capitolite by the name of Elias, spoke again. "Towhee Burdon, sixteen years old, District Eleven female tribute!" His tone was matter-of-fact, though it faltered just as Towhee tried to smile and instead broke into sobs.

_Oh, won't _she _make it far? _Spark thought sarcastically, observing the large teardrops streaking Towhee's face. _Mo could make it farther than she could._

The commentator seemed to agree, because he said, "The odds of this tribute won't be good, and I doubt we'll have many viewers interested in sponsoring her. Still, she'll provide some interest in our Games, which – courtesy of our new president, Gracelle Brownstone, and the lovely Head Gamemaker – are sure to be fantastic!"

As if Towhee could hear him, her sobs became louder, though the strange grimace was still there. The escort patted her back tentatively, much more sympathetic than any other escort Spark knew of, and Towhee slinked – no, she practically _melted_ off the stage.

Mo sighed. "Ah, well," she said, sounding bored already. "Honestly, let's skip the District Twelve reapings. If there's a fast-forward. . ."

As the escort rummaged around the room, Spark now having to churn out shallow comments on the tributes and suggestions of how they could make themselves more fashionable, the reaping recaps went to District Twelve.

The district, declared possibly the most rebellious surviving place after District Thirteen was obliterated for good, was treading on eggshells with the Capitol. It was clearly evident by the even poorer state as Spark received the first glimpse of it since the Rebellion of Fire.

The background was intertwined with wisps of smoke, drifting from mines in the distance. There were countless graves, most of them with a piece of driftwood as a headstone, stretching out for what seemed like miles. Peacekeepers probably outnumbered District Twelve's actual population.

But Spark didn't get to see any more than that, because right then Heaven stormed in.

Spark had expected her to mentor, of course. At least four-fifths of the victors after the Rebellion of Fire were dead, and the remaining ones who survived the purge and battles had been handpicked by Gracelle Brownstone to live. All of the ones who supported Katniss Everdeen had been tortured for days on end until they died, but several known rebellious victors were kept alive crushed and heartbroken.

Spark knew Heaven was not crushed or heartbroken in the least, considering all three children, Ivory, Iridescence, and Inspire, and her husband, were still alive and she had one of the best houses in the Victor's Village.

But Spark had forgotten Heaven would not be at all happy about Spark stealing away the opportunity from her kids. Dess had been in her last year to volunteer, but she had been reaped, and with dozens of girls clamoring to go and Ivory momentarily too stunned about taking Dess' place, Spark had snatched up her opportunity and flitted up to the stage.

Thinking of Towhee's hysteria, she faced Heaven, sounding almost bored when she spoke. "What?"

Her tone was cool, just as Heaven started shouting.

"_HOW DARE YOU?" _Flawless imitation of Antebellum. "_My children were supposed to volunteer!" _This wasn't true. With the Career academy in a disarray and still rebuilding itself from the war, they'd decided to let all the candidates flow freely and volunteer if they wanted to, instead of picking. "I will make _sure _you're miserable in the Games!" _Fat chance, _Spark thought with a touch of arrogance.

Spark thought of her mother, Luster, and what she would say to Heaven, and resisted the urge to sharpen her tongue.

* * *

Evie Wolfe hated the train, the escort, and any and all things involving the Games and the Capitol the moment she set eyes on them.

Well, the Games and the Capitol _before _she set eyes on them.

So she refused to pay any attention to Districts One and Two. They were the Capitol's lapdogs, and they weren't worth watching. She paid a shred of attention to the following recaps, but by District Six, she was bored already (though the bratty young girl from Five did grab her attention momentarily).

Feeling lethargic and yet simultaneously craving some food (all the dishes from the Capitol glistened and glittered in the lights like jewelry, but they didn't tempt her), she sighed, wondering if her own recap would be worth paying any attention to. Probably not. She was entirely indifferent to her reactions, even if they were broadcast across the country. Yes, volunteering would cause a shred of interest, but she honestly didn't care.

_Yes, she volunteered._

She imagined the aghast faces of her district again as the fourteen-year-old who had been reaped collapsed, sobbing hysterically as the girl's mother cradled her tenderly in her arms. Evie had made her way to the stage and heard the mother whisper thanks.

She'd laughed.

Life and love and all that et cetera. _Who cared?_

"Um, Eva?" the escort ventured tentatively.

Evie despised her name so much, she considered not bothering to correct the escort's butchering of it. "Yes?"

"Are you going to eat something?" The escort seemed to brighten at her answer. "We have _wonderful _food here, nothing like that garbage in District Seven."

"No," Evie replied bluntly.

The escort sniffed with a hint of petulance, sagging back into her chair just as the commentator resumed his notes, having paused for some reason.

"-and that's Alice Marina Potts, folks! We don't know much about her yet," he said. Evie perked up at _don't know much about her._ The commentator had known next to nothing about Evie, judging by what he'd said during the reaping, and if Alice could possibly be similar to Evie. . .

_Oh, screw it, _she thought. _Of course she isn't. Eff_ no.

The escort for District Eight strode over to the glass bowl that held the slips of paper for the boys. Alice was standing alone on the stage, watching the crowd with something like bewilderment, or maybe dullness. So far, Evie wasn't impressed with District Eight this year.

Not that anyone so far had impressed her. The boy and his arguing parents from Two, the hubristic ditz from One, the girl from Seven who had nearly collided with the stage stepping up. . .and the Head Gamemaker was actually confident that this would be an oh-_so-_fun Games? Fail.

Someone screamed in the crowd of District Eight, _"ALICE!"_

A little girl with the same wide blue eyes as Alice and short, dirty blonde hair scampered toward the stage like a mouse, kicking a Peacekeeper in the shin along the way. Hands surged out of seemingly nowhere and grabbed at her, but she ignored them, scrambling right onto the stage. Alice, who had appeared oblivious to her at first, now looked down, astonished to see her clinging to her legs.

"Alice!" she pleaded. "Don't go away, Sapphire says that we were gonna go to the sweet shop today!"

"Bee, no," Alice said stoically, pushing her away. Bee wailed loudly as the escort said in the background, "We cannot have this chaotic little brat! _Hmph!_"

"Aliiiiiiiice!"

The tribute didn't seem to register her words. Instead, her eyes drifted to the sky, and she didn't seem to notice as another girl ran onto the stage, snatched up Bee as if she was a rag doll, and carried her away.

Evie didn't notice this either, because the sound of Alice's voice brought back an image of the same face - thinner, younger, more desperate and with shadows cloaking her figure, but still the same face.

She thought of a bullet flying through the air and meeting contact with someone's flesh. She thought of the horrified, bewildered expression that someone had worn. She thought of a seemingly endless sea of terrified faces cramped in train cars, huddling in corners with tears streaking their faces. _Alice had been on that train._

"Eva?" the escort asked, interrupting the silence as the recaps played onto District Nine, jolting the tribute back to reality. Evie didn't answer.

She dismissed her immediately with an abruptness that surprised even her. Evie Wolfe was entering the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games, and the last thing she needed was memories brought back.

She never relived her past. _Never. _She had been a coward once, and she wouldn't be one again.

* * *

_Virtual cookies to you if you remembered Maggie was my tribute. Also, I was a bit vague about the tributes so far because there's boatloads of info to explain. . .they'll come. BTW, sponsor system will be introduced soon. I'm still making up my mind._

_Also, to those wondering – I've decided to follow the movie canon, so D4 is not a Career district. Therefore, it would be more realistic for them to die in the bloodbath. I also exaggerated the reaping reactions a bit._

_In addition, I've also started a blog for this story - linked on my profile. If you can, submit a suitable picture of your tribute (**PM me a link, ones in reviews are ignored**) so I can post it, or else I'll end up picking a pic, and your tribute might not come out the way you'd like._

_I may have already put up a picture of your tribute on the blog, but you can still give me a pic to replace it with. I put the pics on there as placeholders._

_-angels entwined_


	5. Starting the Finish

_Who wants to bet you weren't expecting an update?_

_OKAY EVERYTHING'S ALL MY FAULT AND I'M SO SORRY AND I FEEL GUILTY but really. . ./hides anxiously_

_I can't actually say this is my update; I am now cowriting with Irmaida, aka the creator of the D2 tributes, and she wrote this (and will write the next chapter as well). /waits for reviewers to applaud her_

_Um._

_We don't own the Hunger Games._

_- Angel_

* * *

"_Dominance. Control. These things the unjust seek most of all. And so it is the duty of the just to defy dominance and to challenge control."_

― _Robert Fanney_

Silk. The entire couch was made of silk, which she almost reverently stroked. She hadn't seen luxury this rich since she was twelve, when—

But she'd rather not think about that awful day and the stupid man she was forced to call her father. _You couldn't choose the circumstances you're born into,_ she supposed. But you could more or less control what you do with those circumstances, and well, today was the dawning of a new era, a brand new shiny beginning, which would of course end with her, Aisis Erin, as the rich and victorious winner of the 76th Hunger Games.

She was supposed to be watching the Reapings with her district partner, Moch or something. She didn't care too much for his name; he seemed like the typical not-too-smart but at least burly Career type. The only Reapings she'd really watched were the Reapings for One to check out her most obvious competition – which didn't seem too tough. Especially that ditzy little blonde. Why the blonde volunteered, Aisis had absolutely no idea. Whatever. Not so tough after all, District One, hm? Not tough like you were years ago when you killed my sister?

She shook her head from that thought and focused on the glorious future ahead. Winning should be easy. She stroked the silk and gazed at the luxury around her – the luxury that she would soon acquire when she won, living in a beautiful house at Victor's Village in District Two.

"So, um," said her partner. Was he trying to talk to her? "The competition doesn't seem too bad."

Aisis inwardly rolled her eyes. Did the guy even actually understand what he was talking about? Did he even realize that he'd offended her? Here she was, probably the biggest competition the Games had to offer, and this guy was saying, "The competition doesn't seem too bad."

"Mmhmm," she mumbled, quite coldly. There was no need to make alliances and be all friendly. No one won the Games by being nice, did they? Even alliances - at least the Career alliance - were created out of necessity, not friendship. She was forced to watch the Reapings to avoid talking to the boy. The cameras were in District Five now; the escort was reading out the male tribute's name.

"Aaralyn Shimmerhill!" she chirped, the feathers and jewels that had been implanted into her skin moving up and down as she spoke in that freakish Capitol accent.

The cameras panned over the crowd of potential tributes, then back to the stage, where no one was coming out. There was an anxious, buzzing pause. Could there be rebels in District Five? The escort shrieked a bit and repeated, a bit louder, "Aaralyn Shimmerhill, the male tribute!"

Still no one appeared on the stage. Peacekeepers were sent out into the crowd, which was now buzzing even more anxiously and starting to disperse a bit, but the Peacekeepers were holding them back. The cameras panned out to show the entire crowd, and then finally zoomed into an extremely pale, redheaded boy, looking like the only thing holding him up was the dark-haired boy next to him, who was clutching him violently.

"Aaralyn Shimmerhill!" the escort repeated for the third time, looking flustered.

The redheaded boy fainted.

* * *

It had finally sunk in.

The entire day was a blur of _I am possibly going to die _and _what will happen at home? _and _I am possibly going to die_. It was shocking to think that, just this morning, he was safe at home in District Seven, chopping trees early in the morning, having no idea what was going to happen.

But now, as Garret Fox watched the Reapings recap on the huge wrap-around television screen, he'd maybe gotten a bit more used to the fact. And well, he had to keep a cool head, and strategize. Maybe if he laid it low and got some good allies, he had a decent chance of coming home to Jewel and Puck and Maggie and his father.

So he watched the Reapings with his district partner, whose name also happened to be Maggie, and it hurt. They didn't really talk—Maggie, unlike his caring motherly older sister - didn't seem too much of a talker, and neither was he. They just watched, her occasionally clutching her head, and him fiddling with the bracelet little Jewel gave him before he left. They'd just finished up the District Nine Reapings. After a brief commercial break ("diamond implants, the newest fashion!" "try AutoColor - look like you got your skin dyed at a salon for a fraction of the price!"), the Reapings were back on.

"And welcome back to Panem's number one viewed TV show, bringing the Hunger Games to you for over seventy-five years! We're here in District Ten, a usually boring district filled with cows and sheep, but today the place is just mooing with excitement! Haha, get it, mooing!" The announcer chortled at his own terrible joke, and Garret rolled his eyes.

The cameras briefly panned over the District, showing grassy green cattle fields and many cows, but it quickly centered into where the escort was about to read out loud the female tribute's name.

"Colleen Reyna!" the announcer declared in the annoying unnaturally high voice that was typical of the Capitol. There was a pause as they wait for the tribute to appear. Peacekeepers were sent out into the crowd immediately. There was confusion for a few short seconds, but no, no, soon a blonde with blue eyes was seen coming from the crowd, walking stiffly, like a robot, her face incredibly pale.

"No, no!" Nearby her there was a boy yelling furiously. "How _dare_ you touch her!" There was a blur of shouts and cries as the yelling boy, and two others that were standing close to her were hugging her and trying to comfort her, their voices overlapping, while the other boy continued to bellow. Sobs came out of the television sound system as a little boy began to bawl. The tiny little boy clutched onto her leg, and the Peacekeepers had to drag the poor girl to the stage.

"Get your arms off her!" the yelling boy screamed. His screams were more like pleas now, his voice more desperate. "Just don't handle her too roughly! Please!"

The Peacekeeper pushed the boy away.

* * *

"Hey, where'd you get that chocolate milk?" Tarson Keers asked his District partner, Alice.

"From the Avox," Alice answered. "She's in the kitchen."

"Cool," said Tarson. He got off the couch and stood up, barefoot, feeling the soft carpet underneath his toes. He headed towards the kitchen across the cool tile floor. Who knew a train could be this luxurious?

"Do you have any of that chocolate milk Alice is drinking?" he asked once he reached the kitchen at the Avox, a short crippled woman with a bent back and tired, sunken eyes.

The Avox said nothing, as usual, but instead walked towards the giant cooler. Tarson felt a wave of pity go through him. It just didn't seem fair, he thought, as the Avox opened the cooler and struggled to get the carton on the top shelf.

"I'll get it," he said. Being tall, he easily grabbed the icy cool carton and was about to find a cup for himself to pour it into when the Avox grabbed the milk from his hands and poured it for him.

"Uh, thanks," he said, surprised. He wasn't used to being served and catered like this. Where he came from, District Eight, he could pour his own chocolate milk. Hey, they didn't even really have chocolate milk! Where he came from, hard work was not only a given, it was a virtue. He even enjoyed it sometimes.

Tarson sipped the milk the Avox has given him - the Avoxes were fairly kind people, he decided, even if the escort said that Avoxes deserved being mute. He thought it must be the most awful thing in the world, being unable to speak. Maybe even worse than being blind, like his brother, Jeffers. He frowned. Maybe not. At least he knew his kind, hardworking brother didn't deserve to be blind.

The day wasn't as bad as he'd expected it to be. The food and luxury was absolutely amazing, and his District partner, Alice, was very friendly and intelligent. A possible Ally, for sure. Okay, he was fooling himself. In fact, he still felt a little numb from all the events of the day. But he was strong. He would get through this.

"Did I miss anything important?" he asked Alice, sitting on the floor. He gulped down the rest of the milk and had barely set it down for a second when an Avox was there, picking it up.

"It's okay, I can put that away," he said, speaking to the Avox, but the Avox had already left, without a word as usual. He made a mental reminder to himself not to put anything on the floor, ever, unless he expected to ever want to see it again. He digged in his pocket and felt the lipstick tube his friend Abby had given him as a token before he had left. Would he ever be able to see Abby, pretty little Abby, ever again?

"You haven't missed anything," Alice said, snapping him out of his thoughts. "They're finishing up with District Eleven. They've just read the male tribute's name, Vence Tenmore or something. Thank goodness we're almost done. It'll just be Twelve and then this torture will be over."

Tarson watched as Vence Tenmore (if that was really his name. . .), a thin boy with curly black hair, walked up to the podium, his face pale and white, his legs shaky. Poor guy, Tarson thought. Then he went into the kitchen to get more of that chocolate milk - it was good stuff.

* * *

Well, this was exciting.

His district partner, Colleen or something, was sitting on the sofa, sniffling a bit but not saying anything. When Zyan Opheeus tried to talk to her - about the Capitol, about the Rebellion, about how, well, maybe they could change that - Colleen said nothing. Even now, when no one was around to hear, not their escort or their mentor, not even an Avox, Colleen refused to talk.

Eventually Zyan gave up trying to talk to the girl. Two could play at this game. He didn't have to talk to her, after all. But honestly, didn't the girl care? Situations weren't terrible in District Ten, but they deserved so much better! Didn't the girl realize that there was still hope for Panem, that the Mockingjay might have fallen but her legacy lived forever, and another Rebellion was definitely possible? All it needed was some people who, well, care. And there had to be more people like that. Zyan's own father was killed by the Capitol. And he couldn't be the only one - there had to be people who wanted to get back.

He yawned. He supposed he had imagined it to be more climactic than this, more drama, more opportunities, more of a rebellious spirit. Maybe it was just his partner, he speculated hopefully. The other tributes should've been more obliging. It was the reason he Volunteered for these Games, after all. He had big dreams, dreams to change Panem forever, be the New Mockingjay.

Colleen was still silent; Zyan brooded. Just then, their mentor, an older man who had succumbed to drugs, stumbles in. He was allowed to live while most Victors didn't because the Capitol had deemed him completely harmless. Zyan didn't even know what exactly the man took - morphling? Alcohol? Probably both.

"Heeeyyy, I forgot we're - hiccup - supposed to be watching the Reaping recaps." He stumbled onto the sofa, almost landing on Colleen, who immediately jumped away with a shriek, and turned on the television with the push of a button. Goodness, Zyan hadn't even realized that the giant black wall had been a television - it was too enormous, wasn't it?

The three of them watched the Reapings together, their mentor hiccuping every now and then, in almost utter silence. Yup, _so_ exciting. He didn't pay too much attention to One and Two - One and Two, the Capitol's disgusting little pets, would never be interested in a Rebellion. But once Three came out, a rather ignored District that would probably have some potential rebels as tributes, he perked up.

The girl's name was called up. "Isis Leith!"

When the girl didn't automatically stand up, Zyan was sure that it must've been because the girl was maybe a secret rebel. Then the tribute, a girl with wide-set green eyes and brown hair pulled into a ponytail, came out from the crowd, obviously just in shock. Her mouth was in a complete 'O' shape, and her legs shook so much that Zyan wondered if she would be able to make it onto the stage. Peacekeepers were sent to escort her up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Isis Leith!" said the escort, gesturing toward the girl, who continued to stand there in complete and utter shock. Zyan inwardly rolled his eyes. _Get over it, girl, and think!_

Zyan watched as the escort attempted to raise up Isis's hand and have her wave to the crowd, to celebrate the triumph of being a tribute or something. Isis continued to stand there, resisting the escort's attempts to make her acknowledge the crowd. Her mouth stayed in the perfect 'O' shape.

Yup, this was _so _exciting.


	6. A Beautiful Night to Die

_Like I said, Irmy wrote this chapter._

_The next chapter will be my own, in which case, ;-; because waiting. -nods-_

_THG belongs to Suzanne Collins._

_- Angel_

* * *

_"Fate loves the fearless."_

_― James Russell Lowell_

Caesar Flickerman couldn't recall ever being so nervous before the Hunger Games. He had been doing the job for ages—_ages_—so often that anxiety was a feeling he could hardly remember. But he had just barely gotten out of death with the Capitol. Apparently he had been too "cozy" with Peeta at the interviews, too supportive.

"I was just trying to do my job!" he had defended himself. "You know, playing up the tributes, getting to the audience, it's my job!" A nervous chuckle. He remembered that his palms had been sweating badly. He knew how harsh the new President could be—his own colleagues, Gamemakers and stylists and people he had worked with for _ages_, had lost not only their jobs but also their lives. He had been allowed to keep his job only because Panem loved him.

But he was nervous, because the way he acted at these Games could make it or break it for him. _Take a deep breath, Caesar_, he reminded himself. He sat at his podium above the path to the training center, where the tributes would arrive in their chariots any moment. Nearby him were all the other Gamemakers, including the Head Gamemaker Marquesa, who was barking orders at a servant, and the President. They all sat together, with bated breath, and right next to him was a cameraman - everything would be on the air in just a matter of minutes.

* * *

"I CAN'T FIND MY EARRINGS!"

Sage blocked his ears and tried not to wince as his tribute partner, Spark, bustled around in her pink high heels and colorfully-jeweled dress, screeching for her earrings. Sage was dressed in a similar outfit—no earrings or dresses or high heels, thank goodness, but his suit was just as jeweled and shiny. He didn't really like the costumes, but he couldn't complain—at least he was fully dressed. Usually the District One tributes were half-naked. The stylist this year had a sense of _decency_, thank goodness. The prep team, however, had been all for half-nakedness, and he was pretty sure that their complaining would get to the stylist. He was already bracing himself for the interviews.

"I could have sworn," Spark continued. "I had just set them down for a second because they were dragging my ears down _sooo _much, but then I saw this really pretty sparkly nail polish and thought it matched with my dress so well, and now I can't find them and this is terrible, but my nail polish looks nice, doesn't it? I had one of the prep team members to do it for me, Cherry, right? She's so nice. And—"

"Breathe, _mon amie_," said Sage, placing his hand on the babbling girl's exposed shoulders. "They are right here. You left them with me. And you look beautiful even without them." He winked.

"Oh, thanks!" said Spark, putting on the gigantic and heavy pink earrings with a flirty giggle.

"Okay, okay, okay," said their stylist, Connie, a young man fresh out of design school with spiky green hair. "Goodness, can't I leave for a few seconds without you savage tributes yelling each other out? It's like I have to _babysit _you guys."

"It's fine now," said Sage, trying not to tighten his grip on Spark's shoulders. Connie reminded him of his brother—snobby, spoiled, patronizing. _He at least has a sense of decency, he at least has a sense of decency_, he chanted to himself. "I can handle myself," he stated in as pleasant of a tone as he could muster.

"Thank goodness," muttered Connie. As he left, Sage could hear him grumble, "And One is supposed to be one of the better districts?"

Sage turned around, trying to resist the urge to snap the stylist's neck, and saw Spark, who looked equally disgusted. Was that a sneer on her face? But just as quickly as it had come, it disappeared, and as if someone had pressed a remote control, Spark was giggling again. Sage blinked, wondering if he had just imagined it.

"Oh my gosh, he is _soooo_ cute! The stylist, I mean. Green hair is so _in_," Spark declared, confirming Sage's belief that he had been hallucinating.

"I don't know about that, _mon amie_," he mumbled. "Would you like to see the other tributes with me?"

Spark nodded, and the two of them headed for District Two. He had been meaning to check out his potential Allies.

* * *

Moshe would've never imagined that the Capitol would be so, well, _shiny_. On television screens, he'd always seen the glamor and the blitz and the jewels, but honestly, he had never imagined that it could be _this _shiny. With lights flashing and mirrors reflecting, it was just an all-around glitter-fest. Even their clothes had glitter—not as much as District One, which he could see just looked like a motley of diamonds, but still more than he was comfortable with. Not to mention at least District One was fully clothed—he was wearing nothing but a toga with a shiny silver belt. He also carried a hammer. They were supposed to be stonemasons, according to the crazy stylist.

His District partner, Aisis, who was dressed in a small top and a toga similar to his, didn't seem to like the glitter or skimpiness any more than he did. Aisis didn't seem too much like the friendly type, but she also seemed strong and intelligent. Not as strong as him, of course, because he was going to win. He was going to prove his stupid parents wrong. He remembered what they had told him right before he left. _The life of a Victor is harder than you think, Moshe. I mean, not everyone can handle being a Victor…_

His thoughts were interrupted by a steady stream of chatter heading his way. "Hi, are you District Two? I'm Spark, from District One! Oh my gosh, you look _so _cute in your little outfits! The stylists are so awesome. As is the rest of this Capitol! So many sparkles, isn't it amazing?"

"Yes, yes," Aisis interrupted, suddenly stepping off the chariot. "I am Aisis Erin. Nice to meet you, Spark. And who's the tribute next to you?"

"Sage Le Bel, at your service," the boy answered, kissing her hand lightly. Spark squealed about how adorable it was, but Aisis hardly seemed fazed.

"Nice to meet you, Sage," she answered, in the same cool tone she had used to speak with Spark.

Moshe introduced himself, and then quietly surveyed his Allies, letting Aisis take charge. They all seemed so…nice. No matter, however. He was going to win, which meant he was going to kill. There was no difference between a human and one of the dummies at the center.

* * *

"Can you see anything?" Towhee asked Vence, straining on her tiptoes, trying to see the others.

"I don't know," Vence replied. He wasn't much taller than her, so he really couldn't see any more than Towhee could. Vence chewed his lip, thinking of something else he could say to fill the awkward silence—he was trying to be more sociable and make allies, correct? It was difficult though. He hadn't been sociable in a while, not since the rebels killed Hope. "I think One is out by now," he said, speaking slowly. "But I'm not really sure."

Towhee frowned. She was incredibly nervous—would the Capitol like her? _Of course they will,_ she thought optimistically. After all, she looked just _adorable _in her sunflower costume, with the little yellow petals ringing her red hair. Her arms had been transformed into little leaves, and the rest of her body was a long, petite stem. Yup, just adorable. Vence, on the other hand, kind of looked silly as a sunflower. The yellow petals really didn't help his complexion at all. To be honest, he wasn't too good-looking of a boy, just average, which really was a shame.

"Hey!" said a bubbly voice near her. "Just checking out the chariots—we're allowed to talk to each other, right?" Towhee turned around and saw a girl dressed like a silver gadget excitedly bouncing on her heels. She was cute, with wide-set green eyes accentuated by silver eyeliner and dark neatly hair tied back. Electric buttons—literally, buttons, like those on an electric panel—blinked all over her chest, flashing numbers.

"Oh, hi! I'm Towhee!" said Towhee, noticing the girl. "District Three, right? Can you see more than I can?"

"Yeah," answered the girl with a dimpled smile. "I'm Issy, but the way. The chariot rides won't be starting for a while. We have plenty of time. Even One isn't out yet! Ooh, speaking of One, did you see their costumes? _So_ pretty. I look just hideous in this weird outfit. You look cute though. Speaking of cute, did you see _the guy_?"

"Oh my gosh, _what_ guy?" Towhee asked enthusiastically, her attention automatically caught.

"His name's Sage! District One!" Issy explained, her eyes glazing over. "You have to see him, I swear. I'll bring you over! And then maybe we can go see the other tributes too!"

* * *

Aaralyn had to say, although being Reaped was awful and definitely not the sort of thing that made up a good day, this had at least been a _fascinating _experience.

The laboratories at Five had jumbles of electricity, so he was more familiar with all the gadgets than some of his other fellow tributes, but who would have known that so much of it existed, and in one area! Here at the Capitol, there were giant wrap-around televisions, high powered trains, hundreds of little gadgets and gizmos in the bathroom alone! He had thought he was smart, but he couldn't even begin to imagine how half of it even worked. It was amazing. These horses too; they weren't electric, but they had been trained to function as smoothly as a machine. How could that happen to wild animals? He needed to tell Lotus about it when he got home—_if_ he got home.

He sighed. Nothing like a good old burst of reality to pop your musings about the technology. He probably wouldn't even live to tell the story.

But no matter. He ought to stay optimistic—brains over brawn, right? He clutched onto the bar of the chariot.

"This is an outrage!" shrieked the girl next to him, Antebellum. He knew her—everybody in District Five did, with her rich father. He didn't really like her sort, but hey, at least he knew her father invested in technology. That was good, right?

"An outrage!" the girl continued. "The world is full of mongrels and peasants, and I _told _the stylist that I would not wear anything unless it was made of silk! Chiffon at the least! And what does she get me? _Cotton_!" She spits out the word as if it left a foul taste in her mouth. "_Cot_-ton! I would rather go _naked _than wear _cotton_!"

Aaralyn didn't respond. He himself didn't think their lightbulb-themed cotton outfits were too bad. All he hoped was that the girl would shut up before their ride began—it wouldn't do well with the crowds.

* * *

"There, hon, you look just lovely," said the stylist as she gently clipped Colleen's thin blonde hair behind her ear. "Just lovely. I really wish your hair wasn't so thin, but it's good to get tributes I can, you know, _work_ with this year. _You _are going to make such a cute little cow."

Colleen said nothing, only swallowed and nodded. The stylist seemed nice—well, kind of stupid and unintentionally insulting towards her in the Capitol way, but she was a lot nicer than their forever-drugged mentor. And the cow costumes weren't that bad. They wouldn't really get her noticed or get her sponsors, but at least she didn't look _terrible_.

"Cow costumes," snorted her District partner, Zyan, once the stylist had left. "Really, they could get a bit more creative."

Colleen swallowed again. There was a lump in her throat she couldn't quite get at—but she wasn't going to break down and cry, not in front of everybody.

Zyan glared at her. "Don't you ever talk?"

Colleen did talk—with her friends and family, Austin and Emilia and Dusty and Jesse—but she felt uncomfortable with strangers. She had gotten even more introverted ever since her mother died the previous year. She wished she could tell this to the boy, and apologize to him for ignoring him all throughout yesterday when he was trying to talk to her on the train, but she couldn't bring herself to say anything.

Zyan rolled his eyes very noticeably. "I'm going to see if the other tributes are interested in allying. Your loss if you don't want to talk to me. Bye." Just like that, he took off, leaving Colleen alone in the chariot.

* * *

Gracelle and Italia Brownstone watched as the tributes paraded beneath them. It was always like this, Italia thought, ever since Gracelle became President. Italia remembered that just a few short years ago, she had been down there in the crowds, yelling at the tributes that she thought looked cutest, haggling with others about who was going to win, sponsoring and squealing.

It had all been so…_carefree _back then.

Italia observed her sister's always emotionless face—did Gracelle ever think about those days? No, she supposed, of course not—not Gracelle. Why couldn't Italia be like that?

She wondered, now that she was watching the parade from above and not from down in the stands, was her vision clearer or murkier?

* * *

"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, can you see him? There he is!" squealed a high-pitched voice nearby Maggie. Maggie winced but tried to ignore it—filter out the noise. If she filtered out the noise, then she could prevent a headache. It was something that she had unfortunately had to get used to once she had entered the Capitol—it was like the Capitolites never shut up.

"Oh. My. Gosh!" Another squeal. Maggie closed her eyes and turned around towards the source of the voice. Her tree costume, which was a little too big for her and held together by an assortment of brown and green pins, rustled as she moved, her long sleeves threatening to slip off her shoulders. She remembered the stylist clucking that he had expected the tributes to be a little bigger. As if it was her fault she was too tiny.

"You were right, he was just perfect!" the squealing girl next to her was saying.

"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, you haven't even seen _my celebrity _pictures yet!" shrieked a different voice. "You just have to see them!"

More high-pitched squealing. Maggie winced again. _Filter out the noise_. But unfortunately, the voices seemed to be getting louder.

"Oh look, Towhee, there's a girl dressed as a tree! She can match with your sunflower outfit!"

Maggie turned and finally saw the source of the high-pitched noises—two girls, one dressed as a sunflower and another dressed as some sort of gadget. Yellow and green and silver blurs.

"You look very cute," said the silver one. She spoke fast. Her voice was a jumble of gray strands, like flinged noodles, just sprawling out of her mouth and into the air. "I mean, just _adorable_." The word _adorable _dangled in the air.

The yellow and green one nodded along, her bobbing head becoming even more of a blur. The high-pitched voice came out of her mouth in quick yellow pulses, coming out even quicker than the other girl's voice. "You are so cute, I swear! My name's Towhee, by the way, and that's Issy. How are you?"

She blinked. The girl spoke so _fast_. "Thank you," she finally said.

The girls nodded, and squealed. They spoke for a while, yellow pulses and gray strands mingling in the air with her own heavy purple dots, before saying goodbye and going back to their respective chariots. Maggie liked the girls, she decided, even if they spoke too fast. They were nice, and that seemed to be a rarity.

* * *

"Don't fall off, Alice," Tarson warned her. He got onto the chariot himself, and offered a hand to help her up. Alice took it. Normally she wasn't the type to take help—she could take care of herself—but Tarson obviously just had good intentions and had been friendly with her all throughout the train ride. Perhaps they could be allies; she could use someone watching her back. But could she trust him? You couldn't trust anyone. Even her father, who she had trusted almost all her life, had become an alcoholic and abandoned them once their mother had died. Anyone could betray you.

In front of them, District Seven was already moving.

"Get ready," she whispered to Tarson.

The chariot began, faster than she had imagined it would be, the beautiful horses clip-clopping ahead of them. She wished she was wearing something better than this jumbled motley of different textiles and fabric. _Focus_, Alice told herself. _If you want to win, you have to get the crowd to love you_. It was frustrating though—no matter how much she waved or blew kisses or whatever, they were screaming most at One and Two. She doubted the crowd even knew her name.

But no matter. They would know her name soon enough. She lived in District Eight now, but she used to live in Four, where she had trained for these Games. She knew she could do it. She could—and would—win. To get home. How would Storm and Bee live without her?

* * *

Evie Wolfe terribly disliked her costume.

Apparently her stylist had decided to go "unique" and had dressed both of them up as hot air balloons, since District Six's main industry was transportation. Yeah, like anyone went on hot air balloon rides anyway. According to the prep team, hot air balloons were popular rides at carnivals and such, and "wonderful means of transportation." But Evie was from District Six and she had never seen a hot air balloon in her life. Being more realistic, she should be dressed as a train, or maybe a hovercraft.

It turned out that a hot air balloon was basically a gigantic, ridiculously colorful balloon. So Evie was forced to parade around in a multi-colored blown-up suit that made her look like she had gained several hundred pounds. Not attractive at all. Wouldn't win Panem's hearts at all. But no matter. In the end, it wouldn't be the best-dressed tribute that won, or the most beautiful. It would be the _best _tribute that won.

"Hey," said a voice near her. Was it her district partner trying to speak to her again? She turned around. It was a different guy, a little taller with black hair, dressed as a cow. "I'm Zyan, District Ten. Just trying to get to know the tributes. Nice costume."

Evie rolled his eyes. Was he being sarcastic? She ignored him. She wasn't interested in alliances, especially with those who wanted to compliment her hideous hot air balloon outfit.

The boy, Zyan, raised his eyebrows. "Don't want to talk? Fine, be that way." He left.

At least the guy was smart enough to do that, Evie thought.

* * *

When the chariots came out, the crowds went wild. But Marquesa wasn't interested in the crowd reactions. Ugh, she didn't mean anything against the glorious nation of Panem, but honestly, some of those people in the crowd were so…_airheaded_. And that was putting it lightly. Squealing at beauty, throwing roses and kisses and screaming at those that looked the most physically attractive. Marquesa wasn't looking for beauty, or which stylist could make their tributes pop the most; she was looking out for what she could work with. Yes, so that she could plan everything out perfectly so that each of these tributes would meet the fate they deserve.

Death for twenty-three, victory for one. And that Victor must be the one that most deserved victory—not a single chance that the Victor would abandon the Capitol and serve the Districts, should there be another Rebellion. Some of them naturally should meet more gruesome deaths than others. But it would end up with death for twenty-three, victory for one. Each of these tributes meeting the fate that they deserved.

It was such a beautiful night to die. . .


	7. How to Train 101

_Hey, Irma (irmaida) here._

_Because Ange gave up on her baby here, I decided to adopt it._

_From now on, all of the chapters will be written by me. However, the SYOT will remain on the account of angels entwined for your convenience (and mine as well)._

_Thank you so much for being so patient! The next chapter should be coming soon._

_Angel!note: YOU FORGOT THAT WE DON'T OWN HG._

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN: TRAINING PART ONE

_"I hated every minute of training, but I said, 'Don't quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.'"_

_— Muhammad Ali_

Merill wondered if the tributes were even paying attention to him.

He supposed he wasn't the most impressive of trainers—he wasn't particularly enormous, only five feet ten inches, and he didn't exactly have the loudest voice. Whatever. He was only doing this because he got paid to do it. It wasn't like he cared who would win and who would lose—so long as it didn't interfere with his betting. Yeah, he was bored. Tributes. They all thought they were so smart, but the truth was, only one of them was going to win. And explaining all the weapons in alphabetical order, wonderful as the weapons were, got dull after a while. He was practically repeating his rehearsed speech for every weapon. This is an axe. You throw it. This here, a battle axe. You throw it. And here's a blade. You throw it…

By the time he'd gotten to the zweihander, he felt as if no one was really paying attention. Even the most dedicated of Careers had gotten bored.

"All right now," he said. "Go off to your little stations now. I'll be here if you need help, managing the one-on-one combat ring for anyone who wants to try. Remember, don't get yourself hurt because I am not responsible. Shoo."

The kids skedaddled off to their separate stations.

* * *

Aisis Erin had thought that the trainer would never stop talking. She already knew all this stuff. She didn't want to listen to someone who probably didn't want to know what he was doing to talk about using the weapons; she wanted to use them. She sighed and relaxed when she felt the familiar grip of the knife. Yes, this was what she was looking forward to.

"Ohmygosh, that was totes boresville. Like I'm going to need to even touch a weapon for realsies," babbled on Spark. Aisis stiffened. The District One girl rather annoyed her. What a sorry excuse for a Career.

The rest of the Careers were also trailing her—Moshe, her hulking District partner and Sage, the tall boy who had kissed her hand when they had first met. She surveyed the crew. So that was what she had. An airhead, some muscles, and a guy who thought he was a charmer. Great. Just great. Plus she thought that Spark's chattering was giving her a headache.

"Okay guys," she said, clearing her throat. "I assume you're all going to be part of the Career alliance with me?"

The three all nodded.

"Okay," she confirmed. "First order of business; let's choose a leader." She stroked her knife and gave all of her potential Allies good I-mean-business glares.

"Why, you of course!" prattled Spark immediately. "You're the smartest, I think. And the strongest. And you look like you know how to use a knife! That's so cool! I think girls that can fight are cool; I mean a lot of girls think that girls that fight are ew and all sweaty and stuffs, but I think that they're sooooo cool! You would make an awesome, awesome leader!"

Aisis nodded. Perhaps Spark wasn't so bad. "Anyone disagree?"

No one said anything.

This was going to be easy.

* * *

"This is so not easy! " Issy complained to Towhee, struggling to notch the arrow onto the nbbow. The pair had chosen to try the bow and arrow first because it had seemed easiest, but it turned out that the weapon was a lot more complicated than that. "It looks so much easier on TV and stuff! Ugh, weapons are so harrrrd."

"Well," said Towhee. "I know how to use a slingshot because I use one in the orchards sometimes. But that won't be much help."

"Better off than me," said Issy glumly. She tried to hold the bow the way the trainer had taught her and concentrated on the target. Then she let go, but the arrow only nosedived to the ground, not even making the target.

Next to her, Towhee sighed. "I can't do this either." She looked rather disappointed and sighed. "I wonder how things will actually be in the Games."

Issy looked down and dropped the bow. "I don't know." Then she remembered something. "Oh! I know what will make us feel better! I brought my celebrity pictures!"

"No way, no way!" squealed Towhee, as Issy revealed a very neat portfolio of pictures.

"Look, this one is my favorite! He is just soooooo cute!" Issy gushed, presenting a picture of a young male Capitolite with a quirky smile, large bright violet eyes, and shiny yellow hair slicked to the side. Issy gazed dreamily at the picture, entranced by the photo's beautiful features. No matter how many times Issy looked at the picture, she could never tire of looking at that perfect smile and perfect golden hair and perfect nose and eyes and…

"I don't think so," said Towhee, wrinkling her nose and drawing Issy out of her reverie. "I have very high standards when it comes to guys. He's not that cute. Like look at that weird smile!"

"Oh, oh, you're right," said Issy, immediately backtracking with a nervous chuckle. "He's not cute at all! I mean, look at that nose; it's crooked! And um, I hate blonde hair. Hate it."

"Nah, blonde hair is okay," Towhee mused, unaware of Issy's current plight. She looked closer at the picture. "But that guy is just… yeah, just not my type at all."

"Right, right, blonde is cool," Issy eagerly agreed. "And yeah, he's not my type either. He's rather ugly. Um, do you see any other pictures you like?"

* * *

Today was the day that Vence was going to make allies.

As it was the first day of training, it seemed like the perfect time. Not only that, he would try to get himself acquainted with a few weapons. Yes, he would make the best of training. Perhaps later on he'd even get a chance in these Games.

But as for now, he was absolutely clueless.

All the other tributes seemed to know what they were doing, having found various stations. He was more or less just wandering around, trying to find something not too difficult to do. He didn't want to make a fool out of himself trying to handle something like a sword. He shivered at the thought. Making allies wasn't as easy as he'd first thought it'd be. He wasn't the best at making friends. If he was to be honest, he didn't even have friends.

Finally, he sat down at the edible plants station and started to listen to the trainer. It was actually rather easy, him being from District Eleven and everything. He felt himself starting to relax. Plants. That was something he knew.

"Excuse me," said a voice near him. "But you seem to know an awful lot about plants, and I'm having a bit of trouble classifying these."

Vence turned around to see a smiling redheaded boy with large green glasses, holding up two plants that looked extremely similar, both leafy and green with small blue berries. One was obviously part of a perfectly safe blueberry bush, but the other one was just a very clever Capitol-created imitation. He looked at the two plants carefully and compared the texture of the leaves and very tentatively sniffed the plants.

"This one is the safe one," he told the boy. "You can tell because of the leaves. And you can also sniff, but that's not safe for all plants. Some plants can poison you just with a single sniff."

"Fascinating!" exclaimed the other boy, comparing the two leaves and smelling the berries. "I can see what you mean. I shall be sure to remember that information. How do you know so much?"

"Oh, it's not that big of a deal," said Vence with a smile. "Everyone in my District can do this."

"Ah, District Eleven," said the other boy with a nod. "I'm from District Five. We don't have very many plants there. The conditions are not really ideal there for any sort of living vegetation." The boy paused for a while. "Oh, I realized that I didn't introduce myself. I'm Aaralyn Shimmerhill. Pleased to meet you." He outstretched a hand towards him.

Stunned, Vence took it and shook. Had he just found an ally? "I'm Vence. Um, it's nice to meet you too."

* * *

"You're awful good at that, Alice," Tarson commented as his district partner's knife seemed to fly straight to the center of the target. In comparison, his knife was just barely hanging off the edge of the target. In fact, as he watched, his knife wobbled and fell off the target, pathetically clunking onto the ground.

Alice, on the other hand, only shrugged. "It's not that difficult."

"Still, that's amazing. You have talent. You picked that up really fast!" exclaimed Tarson appreciatively. They had both sat through the same three-minute demonstration by the same trainer, but while Alice had obviously grasped the concept immediately, Tarson hadn't understood much of the concept at all.

Alice looked down. "Well, if I'm to be honest, I've actually worked with a knife before…" she mumbled, trailing off.

"How?" he burst out. His eyes nearly popped. Tarson had not been expecting that. What use would a District Eight tribute have for knives, other than to do things like chop food and cut thick fabric?

Alice said nothing more. Tarson could tell that the conversation was making the girl rather uncomfortable, so he decided to forget about it for now and changed the subject.

"So, um, we're allying, right?"

Alice paused for a while. Her ice blue eyes surveyed him rather intently, judging him. Now Tarson was the one who felt uncomfortable. He really didn't understand Alice. She was usually rather kind and funny and easy to get along with, but sometimes, like now, she was so mysterious and withdrawn, as if she was hiding something. Tarson didn't like that. He expected people to be direct with him; he was always honest and direct with them.

"Yes," Alice finally said, rather faintly. "We're allying."

"Good," said Tarson, choosing to ignore Alice's peculiarities. It just wasn't in him to be suspicious. "Now, maybe you can teach me how to throw that knife the way you do."

* * *

Spark was getting rather tired. No, not of training. In fact, she had hardly touched a weapon at all—she had only watched Aisis and Moshe and Sage clumsily swing around spears and knives and swords, complimenting them no matter how awful and oafish they looked. No, but that was rather harsh. The other Careers were actually competition-worthy, she supposed. She was just rather bored and tired of pretending that she was incapable of anything other than squealing and—

Thunk. Moshe had just thrown a spear at one of the targets. It was a few inches shy from the center. Pathetic, she thought. She could do better than that. A lot better than that. If only the Careers would leave her alone for a few minutes so that she could train in private. She was just dying to touch a spear. After all, her spears always hit the target. The boy, on the other hand, didn't seem to have any talents at all.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You're soooo good at that, Moshe! That was beautiful! I could never do something like that! You're so strong and talented at everything!" Okay, she was overdoing it. She sounded so fake that she wondered if anyone was really falling for it. Were people really that stupid?

"Oh, thanks," mumbled Moshe, a light blush dotting his cheeks.

Yes, apparently they were.

* * *

It seemed to Colleen as if everyone had a friend—or at least someone to talk to, except for her. She missed home. She missed District Ten. She missed her family and Jesse. She missed everything. And she was terrified, here in training.

She played with the clasp of the necklace her older sister, Emilia, had given her right before she had been sent here, the last time she had seen Emilia. It was probably the last time she would ever see Emilia. Emilia had given her a watery smile and a necklace. They hadn't said very much to each other. Colleen couldn't think of anything reassuring to say; after all, she didn't believe that she could really win, not at all. And Emilia had just looked like she was trying hard not to cry.

It had broken Colleen's heart to see her older sister like that. But she had controlled herself fairly well—at least, not until her eight-year-old younger brother Dusty had rushed in and asked her, "Well, you're coming back, right?" Then she had lost it and burst into tears, to Dusty's alarm. She had cried and bawled and not even been able to say a decent goodbye.

Pulling herself out of the painful thoughts, she dropped the necklace clasp she was playing and looked around at her surroundings. She didn't want to die. But what could she do? Perhaps she could learn from others. Her older brother Austin had told her that she was smart. Was that enough? She watched the Career girl from District Two easily flick a knife off her fingers, smirking confidently. She knew that the girl would be wearing the same smirk as she flicked the knife towards a living, breathing human…

Colleen knew that she could never do that. Not only because she had no skill, but because killing another person was the worst thing anyone could do.

She tore her eyes away from the knife. She realized that she was right next to a camouflage station. Soft backgrounds. Paints. Art.

She could do that, at least.

* * *

Evie tried to filter out all the distractions around her and just focus on the cold, gray spear in her hand. She was going to work on this weapon, and she wasn't going to stop until she was good on it. Focus, Evie, she told herself. Focus. She was going to send this spear straight through the heart of the dummy this time, just like she had seen on television, just like she absolutely knew she could. Yes, she was ready for this. She aimed, ready to release, and—

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" shrieked a loud voice near her.

Stunned, Evie's aim faltered, and the spear wobbled, curving around the dummy and sticking into the wall behind. Evie almost growled out loud. The girl next to her, Antebellum, the one with the black curls, had screamed again and broken her concentration yet again. This was now perhaps the fourth time, although it felt like the millionth time to Evie. She cursed her luck. Why had the brat chosen to come to this station, out of every other station available?

"LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE!" the girl was shrieking at the poor trainer, who had only been trying to properly position Antebellum's arm so that she could throw a spear. "YOU. HAVE. CHIPPED. A. NAIL! YOU PEASANT! MONGREL! MY FATHER WILL SUE YOU FOR THIS! I TOLD YOU NOT TO MESS WITH MY SPEAR! I CAN DO IT MYSELF! YOUR TEACHING SUCKS ANYWAY!"

A vein was popping out in Evie's forehead. All she had wanted was for her spear to go through the dummy's heart. But now she felt like sticking it in Antebellum's heart. She took deep breaths. No, now was not the time and place. But Evie Wolfe knew how to keep a grudge. And yes, one day Antebellum, the rich spoiled brat, would get what she deserved. Antebellum had never had to starve, like she had. The girl had probably never had to endure a single hardship in her stupid, privileged life. And there she was, screaming about a chipped nail?

Her fists were clenched. If Antebellum didn't stop screaming, then Evie felt like she would just lose it and sock the girl in the face. And, yes, Evie could punch if she wanted to. She wasn't one of those pussywillows who would just take whatever life gave her.

Luckily, as Evie had been plotting Antebellum's death, so had the trainer. The trainer's face had turned rather red and purple, and finally, he had turned away, reached for something in his pocket, and called for security.

"No! You can't do this to me!" the girl screamed as two burly men clad in gray uniforms dragged Antebellum away, as she kicked and yelled at what an outrage this was.

As for Evie, she only smirked and let out a relieved sigh. Now she could focus in peace. She reached for another spear and squinted. She would pretend that dummy was one of her mortal enemies. Like Antebellum. Or her father, even if he was dead now. Yes, her stupid, selfish, pathetic excuse of a father…

She threw the spear.

It sailed straight through the dummy's heart.

* * *

The fake tree reminded Garret Fox of home. As did the fake rock climbing walls. Yup, the plastic looked so much like the real thing back in District Seven…

Ha! Even someone from District One wouldn't be fooled. He turned to his right when he heard a loud giggle coming from the District One blondie. Maybe not.

He missed the real trees, the real rocks, the outdoors. He missed the forests and his family—little Jewel and Puck, kind Maggie, and his father. He wondered how they were getting along without him. He sighed and threw the axe at the fake trees in the station. It made the soft sound of crunching cardboard—nothing like the solid thunk of a tree.

He left the ridiculously fake station, hands in his pocket, and headed towards the lunch table, where the other tributes were beginning to eat. He sat down, reached for some bread from the basket in the center, and began eating. The food was good enough here, at least. He had barely taken a bite when a black-haired guy sat down across from him, reached into the same bread basket, and began eating as well.

"Hey, I'm Zyan. Who are you?" asked the guy after a few bites.

"Garret Fox," he answered. The boy, Zyan, seemed to be waiting for him to say something else, but Garret didn't. He wasn't much of a talker. And right now, he was focused on eating. He chewed slowly.

"Oh," said Zyan, when he realized that Garret wasn't going to say anything else. "All right, good to meet you, Garret. What District are you from? I'm from District Ten."

"District Seven," answered Garret. He wasn't going to say much else, but the boy did seem friendly and Garret supposed that he was supposed to try to make alliances. He remembered the words of his mentor: You can't get through it alone. Align with one or two good people. So he added, "Lumber and paper."

"Ah," said Zyan, in a very understanding tone. "District Seven, lumber and paper, one not too favored by the Capitol. Is life difficult there? Do you starve there?" Without waiting for an answer, Zyan continued, his tone gathering more zest and emotion as he carried on. "Life must be difficult there! Life could be so much better! Don't you wish for a different life? A life where everyone is equal, and there are no Games, and—no, wait, where are you going?"

Garret had finished eating. And while he had a few set of problems with life in Seven, he didn't really want to listen to speeches and lectures. He had to train. So he left.

Zyan sat there watching a back walk away. This was the third person that had walked away from or ignored him. Perhaps he should go for a subtler approach next time…


	8. A Judgmental Voice

_Disclaimer: Obviously I (irmaida) don't own the Hunger Games. And neither does Angelina, no matter what she tells you. EDIT: actually, we do own THG! :)_

_Hello readers and happy summer! Thank you for sticking through even with the long waiting and slightly bumpy author change. Hopefully this is finally on track and updates will start coming in fairly consistently. (Don't count on it, though.)_

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT: TRAINING, PART II

_"Some allies are more dangerous than enemies." _  
_― George R.R. Martin, A Dance With Dragons_

"Maggie!" cried two shrill, overeager voices. Magnolia Aspen saw gray strands and yellow pulses dance before her eyes as two figures seemed to barrel towards her. She suddenly felt rather dizzy and disoriented. At least she now knew that she'd come to the right place for training, since other tributes were there.

"There you are!" said the yellow one. What was her name? Towee? No, she was missing something. Ah well. Names didn't matter that much to Maggie.

"We tried looking all over for you yesterday," said the other one, the gray one. Now what was her name? Aisis? No, that was someone else. Aisis was the girl with a grating black voice that hurt even when it was smooth. She focused on this different voice—gray and chirpy, long like noodles. Very familiar, yes, although she still couldn't name the voice's owner. "But we couldn't find you! Were you just like, hiding out on the ceiling or in the corner or something? I think you'd be good at that; you'd be good at hiding, I think. But where were you yesterday, really?"

She tried to concentrate on sorting out all the colors of their voices. Yes, they spoke just as fast as she remembered. She suddenly noticed that it was silent, and the colors had faded. And then she observed that the two girls were looking at her expectantly, as if they were waiting for her to say something. What had they asked her? Oh, right.

"I stayed out of training because I had a headache," she explained.

"You missed out on training for a headache?" asked the gray one, sounding surprised. "Aren't you worried about the Games?"

Yes, she was worried. Terribly worried. But she had been more worried about her headache yesterday. And she had been tired. She settled for shrugging instead of trying to explain this.

"Oh well, at least you're here now," said the yellow one with a bright smile. "Hey, do you want to come over and work at the stations with Issy and me? We've been here for a whole day, so we're practically masters." She giggled.

Issy! That was her name. And the bright one… Towhee! She nodded, as it was pretty likely that she would get lost without guides, and prepared herself for training.

* * *

Teal Garrison had never, in all her years of mentoring, found a tribute as annoying as Antebellum. What a spoiled brat, she thought. She'd been mentoring for ten whole years, Five not being too popular of a Victor district, and she knew that someone like Antebellum wouldn't survive a second out there in the wilderness. What was worse was that the girl didn't know this at all; she had an ego the size of the Capitol itself and seemed to think that she would win simply because she was Antebellum Greyson.

Yup, no chance of winning at all.

"Look," she said, trying to knock some sense into the tribute, "you need allies."

"Allies?" repeated Antebellum, stony-faced. "I don't need allies! All of these tributes are below me anyway. I am much too good for these peasants. Why—"

Teal sighed. She felt a headache coming on as Antebellum continued to rant. She wondered why she hadn't just given up; everyone else had. If only Antebellum could channel all her, erm, energy, into something useful, like surviving. The only thing was, convincing her to do so was impossible. Teal had tried everything: begging, bribing, careful explaining, even reverse psychology! Teal did still have one trick up her sleeve though.

"Listen, Antebellum. If you don't find yourself an ally, I can take away all your products."

"What?!"

"You heard me. I can take away all your products. Your prized shampoo and hair products, skin products, clothes, whatever. I can take all that away, easily, with a snap of my fingers." In reality, putting Antebellum on a product withdrawal would mean a lot of groveling and begging and string-pulling, but the girl didn't need to know that.

"Why—this—you—y-y-you're bluffing!" Antebellum spluttered, horrified at the thought of all her essential everyday needs being taken away from her. What would she do without her hairspray, for example? Her hair was already falling out of its salon curls, and unless she regularly maintained it, it would just become a mess! She shivered at the thought.

"Are you willing to take that chance?" Teal asked. Yes, this was good. She smirked confidently, knowing that the girl was too materialistic to take the risk. That was another reason why Antebellum wouldn't last a day in the Games, but Teal was working on that.

"This is impossible! You can't be serious! Do you know who my father is? He'll put an end to this! Any day now, he's going to save me anyway. He's going to—"

Teal let the girl run on, knowing that eventually Antebellum would run out of steam. Maintaining a knowing smirk, she leaned back on the wall and checked her nails casually. "Your makeup, your nail polish, your shampoo…"

"Fine!" Antebellum finally huffed. "I'll find an ally. Just don't touch my shampoo!" And with that, the furious girl flipped her perfectly styled black curls over her shoulder and stormed towards training.

* * *

Someone was watching him.

Sage Le Bel turned around and heard some distinctly feminine voices. He couldn't see the voices' sources, however. He winked and waved at the general direction in which the voices seemed to be coming from and then turned back to the station. He knew that he had definitely won some hearts over when he heard the feminine voices come from behind him again. Some would find it creepy, but nothing too awful had happened yet, so Sage was willing to stand and even encourage it.

Spark was squealing and cheering again as Aisis and Moshe stuck maces into dummies. He wasn't too fond of the mace, but he tried the weapon out anyway.

"Ooh, that's nice, Sage!" said Spark. "I wish I could throw like that! My arm is no good!"

"Would you like me to teach you?" Sage asked.

"Oh, no, no, no," Spark repeated vehemently, shaking her head. "I would just ruin everything! I just like watching you! You're all so talented!" She sat down on a chair and looked up at them dreamily.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, to be polite.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure. Anyway, I could never get as good as any of you!" she exclaimed perkily, but she looked rather tired. She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. "Actually, I need to go use the restroom. I'll be back in five minutes!" Before waiting for confirmation, she practically jumped out of her chair and ran in the opposite directions in which the bathroom was.

"Strange girl," Sage said with a shrug. Although he had run into stranger in his lifetime, he supposed. He felt eyes staring at him again and noticed that a short, shy-looking blonde was observing him. District Ten, he thought. She seemed more interested in the techniques the other Careers were using to throw their maces than him, to be honest, but he winked in her direction anyway, for good measure.

* * *

If Towhee Burdon could forget that the Games existed, then she could actually be happy!

This had been one of the best experiences of her life. Issy and Maggie were both so nice, although very different, and she'd even met a cute boy, Sage! Of course, she was pretty sure that he didn't even know her name yet, but she tried not to think about that. Soon, he would. It was like the best adventure she had even taken in her entire boring life!

If she could just forget about the Games…

Ugh, no, she wouldn't think about that. This was an adventure, and there was nothing Towhee liked better than an adventure.

"Hey, what station do you two want to go next?" she asked, turning to Issy and Maggie, only to notice they were gone. Great, she had lost them. She looked around, but the Training Center was rather big, and not a single familiar face was around.

"Hey, have you seen Issy or Maggie?" she asked to the girl next to her. The girl turned towards her. She was rather pretty, Towhee supposed, with blonde hair and green eyes and a round, pleasant face.

"No," replied the blonde, rather tersely. Towhee tried to recall where she had seen the girl before. She was the District One tribute, Towhee finally realized. The one that was always squealing and smiling. A friendly face!

"Oh, hey, do you want to help me look for them? Oh wait, do you not know what they look like? I can describe them for you," Towhee offered with her usual bouncy smile.

The District One girl smiled back, but Towhee noticed that it didn't look particularly genuine. "Excuse me, but I have to go find my own allies. The Career Alliance. I don't have time to help you look for your cute little friends."

Towhee stood there, stunned. She had not been expecting that. At all. Especially from the District One girl—she had seemed so kind and friendly and bubbly! She watched as the other girl walked away, blonde locks flicking around. Maybe the girl was just tired of training or something. Or maybe she was having a bad hair day. Or maybe she had lost her friends too and was frustrated about that. That must have been it; Towhee hadn't seen any of the other girl's friends around.

Later, when Towhee mentioned this to Maggie and Issy, who she of course eventually found, Maggie had knowingly nodded and said, "Her voice is too black," as if that explained everything.

* * *

"So this is how you do it?" asked Aaralyn Shimmerhill to the balding man that was operating the snare-building station, fitting a piece of wood into his finished creation.

"That looks great!" encouraged the trainer enthusiastically. "You really got the hang of that quickly." He reached down and triggered Aaralyn's basic trap using a stuffed animal. Aaralyn's wooden snare creaked and captured the makeshift prey across its neck, although not very forcefully.

"It works!" exclaimed Aaralyn.

"Would you like to make another one?" asked the man, pleased to have found such an eager pupil. His station wasn't exactly the most popular one, and he knew it.

"Yes, please," Aaralyn said. "But could I have one more difficult? Just a bit complex. Maybe something electronic, or something that requires an explosion, like a bomb or something. Yes, do you think you could teach me how to make a bomb? That would be useful for the Games." His blue eyes shone with anticipation.

The trainer smiled. "I'll see what I can find. Do you mind waiting a little bit? No one's requested anything like that in a while."

"Sure," said Aaralyn with a shrug. He watched as the trainer began to dig through various boxes, occasionally taking out scraps of metal or random parts. Aaralyn even thought he spotted a battery, and he was starting to get rather excited. He recalled how two Games before, the boy from District Three had used bombs. He had thought that a stroke of genius and couldn't wait to use the trick in his Games. It was the only way he had a chance of winning, he thought rather dejectedly.

"Ah, here it is!" declared the trainer, interrupting Aaralyn's thought process. The trainer was holding a large box, and Aaralyn could see something black and metallic peeking out of the box's top. Suddenly, something snapped and exploded. As far as explosions went, it was very small and harmless, but it shocked Aaralyn enough so that he backed up, tripped over a pile of wooden parts, and accidentally knocked off his glasses.

The world suddenly became a blur of fuzzy shapes and colors, as if covered in a very thick fog. "My glasses!" he moaned. "I can't see anything without my glasses."

"Oh my, I'm so sorry!" said the trainer, polishing off Aaralyn's dark green glasses and apologetically placing them back on Aaralyn's face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I must have shaken the box around too much—forgot that they're kind of old and haven't been used in a while. Do you … do you still want to build that bomb after that?" asked the man hesitantly.

Readjusting his glasses and reorienting himself into the world, Aaralyn laughed and nodded. "It's all good. And of course I do!"

* * *

Zyan Opheeus didn't understand. He just didn't get it. Why wasn't his plan working? Why couldn't anyone else see how they could revolutionize everything? Yesterday, all three people he had tried talking to had completely ignored him. It was as if everyone had forgotten that just a short few years ago, the Rebellion had almost worked.

He put his hands into his pockets and sighed dramatically. Maybe he should forget about his big plan for a while and just train. He stopped at the rock climbing station, which was currently occupied by two boys: one redheaded boy with glasses and another dark-skinned boy with curly black hair. It appeared as if both of them had just finished, as they looked very tired and worn.

Deciding to forget about his Mockingjay plan for once and quickly creating a new plan whose only goal would be to make allies, he tried to idly make conversation with the other two boys. "Hello, I'm Zyan. How did the rock climbing go?"

"Oh, it was very fun," replied the curly-haired one. "But I'm not sure what use it'll actually be in the Games."

The redheaded boy shrugged. "Well, I read somewhere that rock climbing helps you with muscular strength and endurance, along with helping you on your ability to think ahead and strategize. And yes, it is very fun. I'm Aaralyn, by the way, and that's Vence."

"Oh, that's nice," said Zyan. His spur-of-the-moment plan was working! They weren't ignoring him or walking away. "So, is it okay if I go rock climbing with you this next round?" he ventured.

The two exchanged glances. "Actually," said Vence rather quietly, "we were going to head over to a different station. But you're welcome to come with us, if you want to, I suppose. Right, Aaralyn?"

"Yeah sure, come along. We were going to try archery next," agreed Aaralyn.

"Archery? Great!" And it really was great. Zyan had been meaning to try the classic Mockingjay weapons, and it seemed as if he had found some allies. Perhaps once they got closer, he would bring up the topic of the Rebellion with them.

* * *

Chewing his food, Moshe Hemlock was rather glad for the short break. Training here was just as vigorous as it was in the Center back in Two, so it gave him just as much of an appetite. The food here was delicious, he decided.

Aisis was talking about something strategic. "So, since there are only four of us, we should separate for the bloodbath, and then meet up again at the Cornucopia. Got that? Meeting up at the Cornucopia. I can trust all of you to kill well and stay alive, yeah?" She glared at her three companions.

"That's a great idea, Aisis!" exclaimed Spark. "You're so clever at these strategy thingies. Of course I can stay alive!" She paused, and added with a cute little expression, "I think."

Aisis groaned and put her face in her hands.

"Don't worry, mon amie," said Sage, coming to the rescue with his usual charming smile. "I can stay with you for the bloodbath if you would like. I will not be far; all you have to do is ask. I'll be your perfect gentleman."

Spark giggled. "Thanks, Sage, but I think I'd rather have Moshe guard me." Turning to Moshe, she giggled again and batted her eyelashes. "Could you, Moshe? You're so strong and brave, I bet. I would feel much safer with you around."

"M-me?" asked Moshe, finally looking up from his food. He blushed furiously as the pretty girl stared at her with her green puppy dog eyes. He realized that he still had some food in his mouth and blushed harder, swallowing. Pull it together, Moshe, he chanted to himself. And stop it with the blushing! Putting on a smile that he was sure was just as charming as Sage's, he confidently told her, "Yeah, Spark, sure. I can do that."

Spark giggled harder. "Thanks, Moshe! You're so kind, too. I feel better already!"

Moshe smiled back and silently swore to himself that he wouldn't forget to protect the girl. So long as it didn't interfere too much with his own survival, he had to remind himself, biting his lip.

* * *

"What do you think about hand-to-hand, Tarson?" Alice Marina Potts asked her District partner and Ally. They had just finished eating lunch, and Alice felt reenergized and ready for something more difficult than shooting at dummies and such. In fact, she was starting to get the feeling of training.

"Hand-to-hand combat?" asked Tarson. "Well, sure. I suppose we haven't been to that station yet, and it's good to try everything. I thought we were going to go climbing after lunch. But, hey, if you want to, that can wait."

"Nah, it's okay. We'll go climb," Alice decided. The pair had been following her suggestions for pretty much the entire day, and Alice figured it was time they did something Tarson wanted. Tarson smiled widely at her. He was such a nice boy. It was a pity he was going to have to die for her to get back to her sisters. But she had to get back to her sisters, after all. Her sisters were more important than anyone else she could meet.

There wasn't exactly a climbing station, other than the rock-climbing station that the pair had already tried the previous day. Instead, there was a collection of fake leafy trees in one corner that some of the other tributes were climbing. That was where Tarson was heading.

She stopped him near the knot-tying station. "I can teach you how to tie a rope ladder," she suggested rather quietly.

"Oh, cool!" said Tarson. Alice could read the question in her District partner's eyes, but he didn't ask it. After two days of sticking together in training, Tarson had quickly picked up on what topics made her feel uncomfortable and stopped asking them. She almost sighed out loud, thinking again about what a nice boy he was. It really was too bad. But it simply couldn't be helped.

"Here," she said, putting a piece of rope into her partner's hands. She had worked with rope all the time back in District Four, before she had moved to Eight. With a little help from the old woman who was working the station and had surprisingly quick hands, a lovely rope ladder was knotted.

"Now can we climb?" he asked, picking up the rope ladder. Alice couldn't help but laugh, just a little bit. Tarson smiled boyishly.

It was a pity.


	9. Who Cares?

_Another update, another chapter. Sorry that this one is so boring, but at least it means that we're one step closer to the actual Games! Who's excited? No one? Okay._

_Disclaimer: no THG ownership. :(_

_Anyway, props to my beta, angels entwined, who not only looked over this for me but also answered all my questions regarding upcoming chapters (oooh). Thanks, Sen! EDIT: not really, but you're welcome anyway._

_—Irma_

* * *

CHAPTER NINE: GAMEMAKER SESSIONS

_"There are no uninteresting things, only uninterested people." _

_― G.K. Chesterton_

_I can't be late! Marquesa will kill me!_ Rushing into the room, Kareem just barely made it in on time for the Gamemaker meeting. An Avox handed him his briefcase and a cup of coffee, which he received gratefully. He had just barely sat down when Marquesa Fournier, the devil herself, entered and took her place in the center of the room. Immediately, the casual chatter in the room settled into silence, and every eye was rather nervously on Marquesa, waiting for her orders.

The silence stayed for a few more moments, Marquesa surveying the room. Her eyes fell upon the one empty seat in the room—Kareem recognized it as Columbine's seat.

"Where is Columbine?" asked Marquesa.

Quiet murmurs rippled through the room, but no one offered the Head a proper answer.

Marquesa's eyes flashed dangerously. "Do not make me repeat my question." She paused slightly, but still no one answered. "_Where is Columbine?_"

"S-sick, m-m-ma'am," one of the women, Carlie, finally stammered.

"Sick?" repeated Marquesa. "No one cares if she's sick! When you signed up as Gamemakers, you made a commitment, a commitment that I expect each and every one of you to follow through. I don't care if you're about to die so long as you won't be infecting me. Today is one of the most important days for our viewers and for us. By gauging the tributes, we can best decide how to manipulate them. The tributes must be properly handled from the beginning to prevent a catastrophe such as the one that occurred two years ago at the Seventy-Fourth. But that cannot happen if you are not present every day I ask you to be!"

The Gamemakers squirmed uncomfortably in their seats as Marquesa glared at her crew. She seemed rather unstable as she finished her rant, her breath coming out in angry, ragged puffs. Kareem gulped.

"I want you all to meet me—Columbine included—in thirty minutes sharp in the training room for the sessions with the tributes. Do not be late." The unspoken _or else_ hung there in the room as Marquesa promptly left the room.

Immediately after the door closed, the Gamemakers burst into a flurry of nervous chatter and movement.

"Are training sessions really that important?" asked Trevon, the man nearest to him, nervously.

Kareem sighed. He was one of the few Gamemakers who actually had experience under his belt, having been a Gamemaker three times before. "Marquesa is totally overreacting," he declared. "They're not that big of a deal at all. They only help with entertainment and betting and stuff. And they're _soooo_ boring. I wish Marquesa would lighten up sometimes! The most important part about the sessions is the delicious sit-in meal."

Trevon sighed in relief. "So I don't really have to pay attention or take notes or anything?"

"Well, pretend you're taking notes so that Marquesa won't go crazy, but, yeah, I totally just wing my notes," Kareem confirmed. He took a large swig of his coffee. "But poor Columbine, man! I hear she's really sick. Marquesa's going to chew her to pieces."

Trevon shrugged. "Ah, well."

* * *

Kareem was sure to make sure that he was a good five minutes earlier than he was supposed to. He'd found that the other Gamemakers had done the same thing as him, including Columbine, who looked positively terrified. Marquesa had probably dealt with the poor woman herself.

Marquesa entered, looking polished and professional as usual, and shortly after that, the first tribute of the day entered, Sage Le Bel.

"How are you,_ mon amies_?" asked the boy as he ambled in confidently. "Looking lovely today, Miss Head Gamemaker." He winked.

Marquesa raised an eyebrow, not a bit frazzled by the flattery. "We're on a very tight schedule. Please proceed with whatever you were planning to do."

Sage frowned a bit but quickly processed her icy tone and headed over to the archery station. There, he picked up a bow. "I like the bow and arrow because it makes quick, clean kills," said Sage, his tone much more serious this time. He shot the arrow to prove his point, but the arrow didn't hit dead center. Kareem was rather disappointed. The Career tributes were supposed to put on a good, impressive show, he thought.

Sage frowned and shot the arrow a few more times before he finally got a bull's-eye. His shots were rather accurate after that, with only a few small hiccups. At this point, however, Marquesa had pretty much already made up her mind. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Le Bel. Your session is over."

Realizing that Sage's session was already finished, Kareem scribbled down a few notes so that it would look like he had totally paid attention and looked up at the next tribute going in: Spark Flicken.

"Hey!" she exclaimed as she bounced in. "I'm Spark!" She giggled. "And good morning to everyone! Or is it afternoon now?"

Kareem found he was already tired, and it was only District One. He snuck a glance at Marquesa to see if her expression had softened a bit, but his boss seemed as stony and determined as ever. He sighed to himself and wondered when the food was coming.

Meanwhile, Spark headed over to the knife station and quickly picked up a random knife and looked to a random target. She threw her first one.

"Oops!" she exclaimed as her knife veered a bit off target. "Oh well!" She continued throwing, unfazed by her mistake. Either she was very confident or she didn't care. Looking at her shallow manner, it was probably the latter, Kareem determined. While her knives were accurate for the most part, they were rather below par for a Career tribute. Again, Kareem was disappointed, as he had been expecting an entertaining performance from One at least.

After that, the boy from District Two came in, Moshe Hemlock. The boy briefly introduced himself and didn't try any flirty giggles or casual banter, to pretty much all of the Gamemakers' relief at this point. He immediately headed over to the spear station, chose a sharp weapon, and threw it straight through the dummy's heart. _Finally, a real Career tribute_! thought Kareem.

After the boy demonstrated his skill and accuracy with the spear, he promptly switched gears and began tying knots. He spent a little while with that before moving onto archery, and then to climbing. He wasn't stunningly exceptional in any of the skills he demonstrated, but he was obviously very versatile and could work with any weapon that could end up in the Cornucopia. Moshe was in the middle of sparring with a trainer using a sword when Marquesa interrupted him.

"Mr. Hemlock, your time is up. Please bring in Aisis Erin."

Aisis Erin entered, another very pretty tribute, like the District One girl, what was her name again? Kareem had already forgotten. Aisis, however, was extremely different from District One. For instance, there were no high-pitched giggles. She simply said her name and then went over to a station.

Unlike the tributes before, Aisis took her time, surveying her weapon choices carefully before picking up a set of small but sharp daggers. Then, from where she was standing, she threw her knife at a dummy a good twenty yards away. She continued throwing, the knives piercing cleanly through in the heart, the eye, the neck. Kareem could picture the girl in the arena, easily making kills, and he was excited. Yes, these were the Games.

After that, Aisis headed over to a station with moving targets. She confidently twisted the dial to its highest setting. The human-shaped targets sped across the floor, to simulate an actual running tribute. Aisis didn't seem daunted in the least, and her knives continued to hit their targets flawlessly.

Kareem snuck a glance at Marquesa, who seemed rather pleased. The bloodlust was evident in her eyes. He also noticed other Gamemakers scribbling notes onto their papers and looked down at his nearly empty sheet, suddenly realizing how behind he was. _Crabapples!_ The woman next to him already had a full page written! He began furiously jotting down some random comments. What had the District One boy even done again? What score? What? Life as a Gamemaker had been so much easier when Marquesa hadn't been the Head.

He looked up and noticed that the District Three boy was leaving. He'd missed a whole session! He sighed and decided to forget about his notes for a while.

"Um, hi, I-I-I'm Isis Leith, but you can call me Issy!" chattered the District Three girl as she entered. "I'm from District Three, by the way, but I think you knew that? Um, so, District Three is like gadgets and stuff, but I'm not that smart with gadget stuff—"

"Miss Leith, please proceed with whatever you were planning to do," Marquesa interrupted.

Issy bit her lip nervously. "I, um, yeah, of course, whatever you say!"

Kareem wasn't impressed at all. District Three was such a boring District. He watched as the girl climbed the rock wall. She was pretty good, he supposed, but it wasn't like rock climbing would help in the actual Games. He remembered to write down some notes. Now all he had to do was find something to write down for the session he had missed.

"Psst," he whispered, lightly jabbing Arny, who sat next to him. He and Arny were kind of chums, right? He slid over his empty paper and gestured towards the empty section. Arny raised an eyebrow but shrugged and gave Kareem his entire first sheet, which had notes from all the sessions from District One to Three. After copying the notes for the District Three boy, Kareem noticed that Arny had also taken much more detailed notes for the other sections, so he decided to revise his entire note sheet.

Sometime in the middle of revising District Two, he realized that he had missed the entirety of District Four's performance. Great! This was too difficult, forget it! He was just going to copy off Arny's after this entire thing was over, he decided. Crumpling his notes in frustration, he decided to tune out to the rest of boring sessions.

He was closing his eyes, congratulating himself on his excellent new decision, when a loud explosion made his eyes snap open.

The District Five boy, Aaralyn or something, had created a bomb using random parts and was in the midst of blowing up some of the test dummies. Stuffing and pieces of cloth flew everywhere, one even hitting his face. The boy smiled happily before setting another one off. Kareem almost jumped out of his chair. Luckily, the boy's session was nearly over, and he left fairly soon. Avoxes filed into clean up the mess, and Kareem closed his eyes, rather looking forward to a brief nap…

"This_ is_ what I have planned!" someone shrieked. Now what?

Apparently, the District Five girl, Antebellum Greyson, was refusing to do anything for her session. Instead, she had brought in a silk cushion and was sitting on the ground, her arms crossed. Marquesa looked furious, as if a vein was about to pop, but eerily, she calmed down and simply raised an eyebrow.

"If that truly is all you plan on doing, then proceed," said the Head Gamemaker icily. Antebellum, however, didn't recognize the not-so-subtle danger in Marquesa's voice and continued to pout. Kareem had a sinking feeling that Antebellum would suffer for this later. Oh, well. Not his problem.

At that moment, Avoxes came in, carrying huge heaps of food. Turkey! How wonderful. He dug into his food, not caring what sessions he missed, engrossed in the food. The meat was so tender and tasty. Wonderful!

Feeling better now that he was full, he decided to watch some more of the sessions. He had only missed one, it turned out. That was good.

"Evie Wolfe, District Six female tribute. I'll be throwing spears," the girl in the room said tersely, her eyes on the Head Gamemaker. She ran over to the station with spears and chose one. Kareem watched as she flicked her wrist to release the weapon, the spear impaling the dummy through the stomach. Evie ran to the dummy and took out the spear as she ran by before throwing it at another.

The girl's technique and skill was decent, as far as non-Career tributes went. But it was obvious that Evie had just picked up the skill recently. It couldn't compete with Careers who had been training all their lives, he thought with a shake of his head. But there was a glint rather similar to Marquesa's in Evie's eyes as her spears skewered through the dummies.

She was an interesting tribute. Kareem reached for a bottle of champagne, only to have it sharply snatched away by Marquesa. Her eyes told it all: she didn't want intoxicated Gamemakers, not during her sessions. This was work, not play! Kareem was disappointed as he resorted to apple cider. How weak!

The next tribute was Garret Fox, from District Seven. Kareem was only partially paying attention as Garret swung around his axe. He was from District Seven, so that made sense. While it was obvious that the boy was familiar with using and swinging around an axe, he didn't seem as confident about throwing it at a target. The first time he threw it, it missed the dummy's heart and instead landed in the stomach.

It was rather impressive, still, the way he wielded around his axe. Plus, the weapon was so large and heavy that even a slightly askew hit seriously dug into the dummy. Not bad for an outlying District, Kareem thought. He slurped his soup. That was good stuff…

The next tribute was less than remarkable. She was a tiny little girl, with loose brown hair and wide, slightly terrified eyes. She entered hesitantly, and then she stared around the room, not doing anything.

"Miss Aspen, please proceed with whatever you have planned," Marquesa said. Was that tiredness creeping into her voice? Maybe, if Marquesa got tired enough, she would go easy on him and excuse him for not writing any notes! Then he wouldn't have to spend all night copying down Arny's. Of course, he could try taking them now… He checked the name of the tribute. Magnolia Aspen.

"I didn't know you could talk. You seem too animal-robot to talk," mumbled the tribute, staring at Marquesa in wonder. Luckily, Marquesa seemed to have not heard her. Kareem caught himself laughing just in time and wondered if this Magnolia girl would try to pull off an Antebellum or something. She seemed different though; instead of being stuck-up and arrogant, she simply appeared dazed and confused. And her voice, instead of being mocking, was genuine.

Finally, Magnolia picked one of the fake trees scattering the room and climbed it. Not very impressive, but at least she had given him a small laugh. He'd even remembered to take some notes. That would be less for him to copy. Telling himself that, he forced himself to at least give a semblance of concentration for District Eight.

Tarson Keers came in and wasted no time in getting to his station. Ropes. He hadn't seen anyone work with ropes today.

Quickly, he knotted the strings together. He was actually fairly good at it, to Kareem's surprise. He didn't think that someone from District Eight would be so familiar with something like rope. Unfortunately, watching someone tie knots got boring after the first thirty seconds or so, no matter how skilled the person tying was.

Kareem resisted the strong urge to yawn. Had it been this boring for the last Games he had worked on? Nah, neither Plutarch nor Seneca had been as strict as Marquesa, so he'd been allowed to drink, and talk with his colleagues, and not worry about Marquesa's really creepy eyes that were currently glaring at him—okay, he was working, he was working…

Tarson had finally finished up whatever he'd been knotting, and now he raised up his final product. It was a ladder. How… nice. And now he was climbing the ladder. Yes, very… nice. Substitute _boring_ for _nice_. He supposed that the boy was rather good at what he was doing. But that didn't excuse that he'd been watching sessions for what seemed like hours and everything was so boring! How many Districts were left?

Tarson's session was over. The District Eight girl, Alice, came in.

She entered with a sort of businesslike grace that was rare in a tribute from an outlying district. She didn't seem nervous at all as approached a set of spears used for hand to hand and had a trainer come up to spar with her.

The trainer seemed to go easy on Alice at first, doubting her ability since she was from District Eight, but it was obvious that Alice was skilled. Almost as good as the Careers, actually. As the trainer picked up speed, Alice kept up with him, until she finally floored the trainer. The ends of the spears used for hand to hand were blunt, so that it wouldn't severely injure anyone—they didn't want tributes dying before the Games—but that blow must have hurt. Poor trainer.

Kareem approved of this girl's skills. It briefly crossed his mind to wonder where a girl from District Eight would pick something up like that, but he forgot about it as soon as dessert came. Cake! And gourmet ice cream! Just wonderful! Marquesa was glaring at him again, but even she couldn't stop him from having his cake! He chowed down shamelessly, staining his face with crumbs and barely stopping to chew. But all the food, along with the heavy work of the day, was starting to take its toll on him. He was so sleepy … he would just close his eyes for a second …

Kareem woke up due to a sharp jab in his side delivered by Arny. He blearily oriented himself, trying to figure out what he had missed.

A dark-haired boy was trying to shoot an arrow towards a target, but he wasn't having much luck. He only hit the center of the target around half the time. Arny gestured towards the section of his paper that read District Ten. _Crabapples_! Kareem had missed an entire district! Ah, well, like he cared.

The boy, whose name was Zyan Opheeus according to the tribute list, had given up on the bow and arrow and was now throwing spears at a target. He was better with the spear than he was with the bow, but his skills were still rather mediocre. It was nothing compared to what he had seen the Careers do. Even that District Eight girl from before, Alice, had done better. At least District Ten meant that they were almost near the end. Yes, Kareem would survive.

Zyan finished up his session with a polite bow and a flourish. "Thanks for watching and paying attention," he said with a smile before leaving.

The next tribute shuffled in, her thin blonde hair covering up the majority of her face. She brushed her hair aside, looking rather nervous. She didn't say anything to them at all but instead automatically picked up a spear. Great, another one.

Kareem was rather tired of seeing tributes working with spears and knives and the lot, especially when they weren't particularly good. He stuffed his face with more cake to prevent himself from falling asleep again, although he wasn't sure how much longer he would match. He checked the girl's name on the list so that he would look like he was doing something other than eating. Colleen Reyna.

Colleen's session went along on a similar path to Zyan's, although she seemed less confident. Her fingers trembled. When she was finished, she didn't bow or say anything, but meekly shuffled out, never making eye contact.

Finally, District Eleven! He was almost done. Vence Tenmore came in and said rather uncertainly, "Hi. I'm Vence. I'll, um, be working with swords."

Swords. At least not spears. Kareem was sick of spears. Vence didn't have much skill with his weapon, although he seemed to be trying his best. Kareem didn't know too much about using a sword himself, but he was pretty sure that you weren't supposed to hold it that far away from your body, as if you were afraid of it.

Vence swung around his sword at a trainer, who was evidently going easy on him, and was overall rather dull.

Vence left and was replaced by Towhee Burdon, the District Eleven female. She bounced in and seemed very perky but also very nervous.

"Hey, I'm Towhee! I'll be telling you all about plants!"

Kareem groaned inwardly. Plant identification? That was about as boring as, well, plant identification! Couldn't the girl be more considerate towards their feelings and do something more interesting? Even the girl's lively tone couldn't disguise the mere dreariness of the task. He'd already gone through twenty-one sessions and at this point, he didn't even care who won the Games. (He cringed as he inwardly thought of what Marquesa would say.) He just wanted to go and take a nice, hot bath and eat cheese. Yes, cheese …

Towhee was very good at what she did, but that wasn't too impressive since she was from District Eleven.

Realizing that only one District was left and even Marquesa seemed worn out, Kareem decided to just take another nap. Forget District Twelve. He didn't even try to disguise his yawn. He was just so tired…

When he woke up, all the other Gamemakers were gone, and Marquesa was leaning over him, looking as if she was going to explode.

He was _so_ dead.

* * *

_Phew, I'm finished! Thank goodness I only have sixteen tributes to work with. This would have been worse if I had twenty-four. I'm impressed with those of you who do._


	10. Report Cards

_Sorry that this chapter is so short! It's more of a filler/necessary thing. :/_

_Twilly, do the disclaimer for me. __EDIT: we own THG. Also, I'd like to make an apology here. You should have received this chapter yesterday, but I was being lazy about updating. So to make up for it, I'm offering to sell all of you the rights to THG!_

_. . .What?_

* * *

CHAPTER TEN: SCORES

_You know, I'm fairly intelligent, but I don't think my grades reflected that._

_— Barry Sanders_

"So, how do you think your sessions went?" asked Mahlon, their male mentor. The District One tributes and mentors were currently lounging on a couch, waiting for the scores to be announced and eating some blueberry pie.

"Oh, great!" replied Spark excitedly. "Well, actually I'm not sure if I did great, but I think I did great!"

Mahlon raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Well, what did you do?"

"I threw around some knives. I missed some, but I was sort of accurate! Cool, right?" asked Spark, looking rather proud of herself.

Mahlon rolled her eyes. He was a Victor that had won not from beauty but from strength and strategy, and he was not impressed with Spark's giggly, vapid personality. "Spark, if that's really as well as you did, you might not have done that great."

Spark's eyes widened as if the idea had never occurred to her. "Y-you mean they didn't like me?"

Frustrated, Mahlon sighed and crossed his arms. "Listen up, Spark, the world doesn't revolve around you—"

At this point, Sage swooped in, interrupting whatever harsh reprimand Mahlon was about to deliver. "Don't be silly, Mahlon. Spark, I'm sure you did fine, _mon amie_. And how could anyone dislike a lovely young lady like yourself?" He winked.

Spark giggled, immediately brightening up. "How did you do, Sage?"

Sage opened his mouth to answer, but just then, the TV came alive with Caesar Flickerman's face and voice. "Aaaand now," Caesar was dramatically announcing, "—the tribute scores! We'll begin with District One's male tribute, Sage Le Bel!" Sage watched as his face flashed across the screen, and with it, a rather modest seven.

"Seven?!" hissed Mahlon. Sage felt a little disappointed, although he really should have expected it. He wasn't that great when it came to survival stuff, especially for a Career. He only wished that Mahlon didn't sound so disappointed. Hey, training wasn't everything.

"And now for Miss Spark Flicken…" Spark's face came into view now, the number under it reading six.

"A six! A six! Yay! Wow, I did even better than I thought!" exclaimed Spark, jumping up and down.

Looking back and forth at both his tributes, Mahlon groaned out loud. "You are a disgrace to District One. I'm going to be the laughingstock of all the other mentors. Why couldn't I have the tributes from Two…?"

* * *

Aisis was rather disappointed with the scores of her allies—a six and a seven? This was what she had to work with? Seriously? She'd been hoping for some decent competition. She sighed inwardly. At least, even if her allies didn't seem that prepared, they were more prepared than the other tributes! Plus, she would seem more favorable to Capitol sponsors when she got a higher score, which of course would happen.

"Moshe Hemlock, eight!" announced Caesar.

"Hey, good job," said their mentor, Leota, looking rather pleased. "You've definitely got a chance." Moshe only shrugged.

"Yes, good job," repeated Aisis, more out of politeness than genuine honesty. If she herself got an eight, she would just die. She was a perfectionist. But she supposed that an eight was satisfactory for someone like Moshe, and at least it was better than District One.

"And here's our lady from District Two, Aisis Erin, with a score of ten!" boomed the television speakers.

She heard her mentors and Moshe clap for her. She grinned and allowed herself to feel a little bit—okay, a lot—of pride. Ten, exactly what she deserved. And it was probably going to be the highest out of all the tributes, since no one got elevens or twelves unless the Gamemakers hated them and wanted to peg them as a dead man or something. Yes, she was very pleased. Winning this thing was going to be a piece of cake.

* * *

Issy was reading a magazine issue of _Hott_! One nice thing about coming to the Capitol was that gossip was so easy to find. Magazines were cheap and free and _everywhere_. She squealed out loud when she noticed that one of them even had an article on a cute new male celebrity. She decided to go outside to find a pair of scissors to snip out the page and put it in her collection when she noticed that the television was on.

"Tribute scores!" she exclaimed. "They're on already? Why didn't anyone tell me?" No one answered. Her mentor was a quiet older man who didn't talk or explain or do anything, and the same went for her partner. She sat down to watch the scores, magazine forgotten. Scores were more important. Scores meant the Games, and the Games meant her life.

They had just finished up with District Two. Here it was, the moment of truth. Issy was pretty worried about the way her session had gone—she knew that she hadn't been too impressive, and she'd gone right after Two, so she must have seemed just awful. Plus she had been super nervous and just stuttered and rambled in front of the Gamemakers. She had an awful tendency to do that when she was nervous.

"Here we have Isis Leith, from District Three, with a score of four."

Issy slumped. She had been hoping for something a little higher, something to impress the sponsors, but four was decent. Plus, it meant that she wouldn't be stirring up any trouble with any of the Careers. Yeah, her score wasn't that bad. Not that bad at all. She had to be optimistic, she reminded herself.

* * *

"Aaralyn Shimmerhill, District Five, with a score of… seven!"

"Yes!" exclaimed Aaralyn, jumping out of his seat. Then, getting back to his senses and feeling a little embarrassed at his outburst, he sat back down and adjusted his glasses, even though that was unnecessary. "I mean, I think that went rather well."

"Yeah, man," said their mentor, Domenic, looking impressed. "That's really good for District Five! You even did better than that District One girl! What did you do?"

"I blew up some of the test dummies," he said modestly. "I guess they liked it because it was different."

"That's excellent!" shrieked Domenic. "High five!"

Aaralyn grinned and lightly slapped Domenic's palm.

"Ha, seven, big whoop!" shouted Antebellum, who was sitting on the same couch as them, picking at the threads of the silk cushion. "No one cares about you anyway! I bet I did better—"

"Antebellum Greyson, from District Five, with a score of one."

Antebellum's jaw dropped open and flopped up and down for a few seconds before she let out a batlike shriek that was probably loud enough to be heard from the twelfth floor. "This is an outrage! How could you have done better than me? I didn't even do anything bad! I just sat down on the floor and refused to move! How does that deserve a one? I am Antebellum Greyson!"

"Whoa, whoa, what's going on?" asked Teal, rushing in after hearing Antebellum's shriek. "Did someone hurt themselves? Are you guys okay?" Then, seeing Antebellum, she understood immediately. "Oh, I see what's going on. It's just Antebellum."

"Just Antebellum! I'll have you know, I am not a just," huffed the girl. However, she seemed to have gotten tired of screaming and flopped down on the sofa, her signature pout on her face.

"Why didn't you do something for the sessions, Antebellum, like I told you to? You just sat down acting like your usual bratty self, and now look what that's gotten you! A one!" Teal hissed. When the girl just glared at her, Teal sighed. She was just sick of Antebellum. "Well, have you at least made an ally yet?"

Antebellum glared at her even harder, if that was possible. "Why is everyone against me?" she wailed before storming out of the room. "I hate you all! I hate everything!"

* * *

District Five's scores had just flashed over her, and Evie knew that meant that her score would come up soon. She wasn't too nervous—she knew that scores didn't mean anything, other than for sponsorship. But surely, even if she got a bad score, once people saw that she could kill in the actual Games, she would gain sponsors anyway.

The broadcasting suddenly turned into an annoying advertisement for toothpaste, and Evie decided to go to the kitchen to eat a snack. She found a large bag of cookies just sitting in one of the cupboards, and she wondered how these people could stand such excess. Ah well. She might as well take advantage of it and gain weight while she had the chance. She took the entire bag off the shelf and began eating. While she was at the cupboards, she took some granola bars and pocketed them. No one would miss it, and even if someone would, Evie couldn't care less.

She came back just in time to see her score on the screen. "And here's Evie Wolfe, from District Six, with a score of six. Ah, look, a rhyme!" Canned, false laughter came out of the television speakers.

She rolled her eyes. Capitolites and their stupid humor. A six wasn't too bad. She thought that she deserved more, but a six was something she could work with. She stuffed some cookies in her mouth, not bothering to share even when she noticed her District partner eyeing them jealously. He could starve for all she cared.

* * *

"For Garret Fox, from District Seven, we have another score of six!"

Garret wasn't too disappointed with his score. Part of his strategy, after all, had been to lay it low and not seem like too much of a threat.

"Good job," said Maggie, his slightly odd district partner. She was currently eating some peanut butter toast, and her voice was slightly muffled.

He nodded. "How do you think you did?" he asked.

Maggie shrugged. "The woman in the center was robotic and animal-like at the same time. She's a weird gloopy color, like toxic slime. My head hurts thinking about her."

Garret blinked, wondering what in the world the girl was talking about. Maggie really was an odd one. "Uh, yeah, I saw the woman in the center. Head Gamemaker, right? She looked really intense."

There was an awkward pause for a while, until Caesar announced the next score.

"Magnolia Aspen, also District Seven, with a score of two."

A two? Poor girl. Garret felt awfully sorry for Maggie with a bad score like that, but Maggie didn't seem disappointed at all. She hardly seemed to have noticed what had just happened, being more focused in her peanut butter toast. When she noticed Garret staring at her, she looked up and smiled.

"I really like this peanut butter toast," she said. She looked up at the screen and noticed her score. "Oh, I got a two." Idly, she took another bite of her toast. Noticing Garret's surprised stare, she said, "There's more peanut butter in the kitchen if you want some. It's really good?"

Poor girl. Poor, odd little girl.

* * *

"We're next," said Tarson, looking at Alice. "Are you nervous? You never really told me how your session went."

Alice shrugged. She didn't want to reveal too many details, even if Tarson was her ally. "I think I did pretty well," she said. She then smoothly directed the question towards Tarson. "What did you do? Did you make that rope ladder like I taught you to?"

"Yeah! Thanks for that, by the way. I think I already told you, but you're really good with rope, and you helped me a lot." Tarson told her with a smile.

At this moment, Caesar declared the next scores: "Tarson Keers, District Eight, with a score of five."

"Not bad," said Tarson, commenting on his own score. "I mean, I guess that was about as good as I could expect. But I did try my best."

"Yeah," said Alice. She wondered how she did. She hadn't felt nervous until now—she knew that she'd done really well. But now, her score was seconds away from being announced…

"And his lovely District partner, Alice Marina Potts, received a score of eight!"

Eight? Eight! That was better than she had expected. Suddenly paranoid, she wondered if the Gamemakers had purposely put her score high so that she would be a target for the Careers. What if they knew about her? Knew about her past, her crazy anti-Capitol drunkard of a father, knew why she should be a target…

"Oh my gosh, Alice, that's awesome!" exclaimed Tarson. "I knew you'd do really, really well! Come on, smile! I've seen you in training; you deserve that!" Trust Tarson to be so hopeful and honest. He opened his arms and suddenly hugged her. She stiffened for a moment before hugging back.

"Hey, say something," said Tarson jokingly, releasing her from the hug. "You got a really great score! Smile or something!"

She smiled nervously, and then, looking at Tarson's grin, smiled more widely. Forget paranoia. She'd done really well, and that was why she'd gotten her score. Not because her anti-Capitol father made her a target.

* * *

"Now, onto District Ten. Zyan Opheeus, six!"

"A six?" spluttered Zyan. "I think I did way better than that! I deserve an eight, at least!" He looked at his District partner, wondering if she was going to ask why or what did you do or something like that. She didn't, of course. Zyan had come to understand that his District partner was practically a mute. She technically could speak, but she almost never did.

"I mean, I showed off all the skills I had picked up—with the spear, and with the bow. And I was excellent, I'm telling you! Six is only for mediocre people, but I was excellent! I mean, I—"

Caesar's voice interrupted his rant, bringing his District partner's score. "Colleen Reyna, also from District Ten, has received a score of four."

He smirked. At least he'd done better than Colleen. "What do you think about that, Colleen?"

The girl said nothing, but simply swallowed hard. In a soft, barely audible voice, she stammered, "O-okay."

He sighed. Thinking out loud, he declared, "These Games are so rigged. I mean, things could be so much better, so much different, without a Capitol, without things always rolling this way."

* * *

Towhee bounced up and down in her seat, wondering what score she received. She'd done plant identification, which she knew was not that impressive. Watching all the other scores pass by, she was rather intimidated. Everyone had done so well! (Well, almost everyone.) That one Career girl had even gotten a ten!

"For District Eleven, we have male tribute Vence Tenmore, scoring a four."

Hearing his score, Vence sighed but looked as if he had expected it. "I tried using a sword, but I wasn't that great," Vence explained. He turned to Towhee, trying to make conversation. "How do you think you did?"

Towhee sighed. "Not that well. The Gamemakers seemed really bored when I went in! And the Head Gamemaker looked super scary."

Vence nodded. "It was like that for me too."

"A four isn't that bad, though. I'll probably do worse," said Towhee glumly. As if to on cue, Caesar announced her score: a mere three. She sighed. She should have foreseen a score like that. "See?" she added.

"It could be worse," Vence offered consolingly. "At least you didn't get a one, like that District Five girl." He smiled hesitantly.

"Yeah, I guess." She tried to perk up, because after all, it was very nice of Vence to try to comfort her. If only some cute guy would do that, she lamented. Then she would really feel better!


	11. The World is Watching

_And here we are with another chapter! Since the previous one was so short, I tried to make these more long/interesting. After this is interviews part ii, and then the actual Games will actually, like, happen! I'm surprised I made it this far, to be honest._

_EDIT: you forgot to mention who owns THG. —-Angel._

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN: INTERVIEWS PART I

_"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will." _  
_― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre_

"Okay, what's your angle again?" drilled Mahlon. Spark's interview was about to start in perhaps about ten minutes, and there was no way that Mahlon was going to let his tribute make a gigantic fool of herself on national television. Even if Spark didn't seem to care, he definitely did. After the training score had showed up, he'd barely been able to hold his head up among the other Career mentors! He wondered why he was the one stuck with Spark—couldn't Heaven Trillian take her? She was supposedly the female mentor, after all. But Heaven had made some excuse about how they should switch things up and a headache or something.

"Okay, okay," said Spark. "I got this! For my angle, I'm going to be smart and say I'm going to kill people, and stuff like that." She nodded. "I got this!"

Mahlon sighed. "And if Caesar brings up your low training score?"

Spark paused for a while before triumphantly declaring, "I'll say that training scores don't matter because what actually happens in the Games is more important!" She seemed extremely proud of herself for remembering that. "I got this!"

Mahlon sighed and wondered how much of his lecture Spark would actually retain. "Just… try your best." At least she looked nice. Spark was dressed in a short silver bubble skirt that shone and a silvery tank top with mirror pieces sewn on so that she reflected light. Maybe the Capitol would forget about her utterly vapid personality since Spark looked pretty enough. Or maybe Spark would actually pull through—maybe she did have this.

He would discover soon enough.

* * *

"And now," declared Caesar, "the moment you've all been waiting for… District One, Spark Flicken!"

Lights flashed, and the noise level in the room reached a maximum as the excited audience applauded. Spark happily bounced in, smiling and giggling and waving excitedly.

"Miss Flicken, don't you look lovely?"

Spark giggled and took her seat, crossing her legs. "Thanks, Caesar! I'm so excited to be here in the Capitol! Everything is so nice!" She waved again, and the audience approvingly waved back.

Caesar smiled back at the girl and then asked, "Let's get down to business on the Hunger Games. What's your strategy?"

Spark's eyes widened, and her face scrunched up into an adorable confused look. "Strategy? Oh, strategy! Um … I don't know! I'll just play it by ear and hope for the best!" She grinned maniacally.

"You're not worried?" asked Caesar.

"Nope! What's there to be worried about?" Spark giggled.

"Well, all right," said Caesar, deciding to change the subject. He seemed rather surprised at Spark's silliness. Unusual for a Career. "What do you have to say on your training score? It's a little lower than usual for a Career. Are you happy with it?"

"Oh, yeah!" she replied. "It was even better than I expected!" Somewhere in the audience, Spark could see Mahlon facepalm. Her mentor seemed absolutely mortified. She had to resist the urge to snicker. It was so … cute, how she had Mahlon completely fooled. And looking at the audience and Caesar, she completely had them fooled too. She giggled again as the audience laughed and applauded along with her.

The rest of the interview went along like that, Spark executing her personal angle flawlessly. She giggled and flirted, and once she jumped out of her chair, she twirled and clapped her hands. Caesar quickly went along with it.

"Well, one thing's for sure, Spark, we're all very excited to see how you'll do in the actual Games. Ladies and gentlemen, Spark Flicken!" The audience cheered as she left, and Spark bowed and blew kisses for good measure, still giggling.

* * *

In the moments leading up to Sage's interview, he had been sitting in his seat, wiping his palms on his tuxedo pants. There was no reason for him to be nervous, he reminded himself. He was to be himself—funny, flirty, likable. And he looked exactly like a funny, likeable flirt in his tuxedo with sapphire-studded sleeves. To complete the look, his stylist had also placed a rose in his pocket. He would have the Capitol charmed effortlessly.

"You were wonderful," he said with a smile as Spark came back from her interview, a huge grin lighting up her face.

"Thanks, Sage! I'm sure you'll do really well too! Good luck!" Spark giggled more and sat down next to him, looking extremely pleased with her interview. Sage hoped that he would be just as pleased with his interview.

Hearing his name shouted, he made his way over to his chair next to Caesar. He looked directly out at the audience, full of confidence. "Salutations, Panem!" he shouted, waving. The audience went wild, shrieking and clapping.

"Sage! How wonderful to meet you!" said Caesar, ever the perfect host. He shook his hand. "How are you feeling tonight, Sage? A little nervous?"

"Nervous?" he repeated. "Oh, that's a good one, mon amie. Of course I'm not nervous. Who the hell do you think I am?" He laughed and felt pleased when the audience laughed along with him.

"All right, you're not nervous," said Caesar, his hands up in the air as surrender. "Confident, are you?"

"Of course," he said. "What reason do I have to be nervous?"

"So, do you think you're going to win the Games?" Caesar asked.

"Of course," he repeated with a nod. More shouts of approval came from the audience.

"And why is that, Sage? Why do you're going to win the Games?"

"Well," he began, "for starters, I could never bring myself to leave all the ladies sad and alone." He winked to emphasize his point and heard the audience go wild. One rather plump lady in the front row with purple skin was clutching her heart.

"Ah, I see, Sage," said Caesar, laughing. "Any particular lady?"

Sage paused for a while as if deep in thought before replying, "No. There are just too many lovely ones out there. I could never choose just one!" More shrieks from the audience.

"You're quite the ladies' man, Sage," said Caesar sternly. Then he laughed. "I approve!" Again, the Capitolites went wild, shouting their approval. Sage was very pleased with the way his interview was going and was beginning to feel extremely relaxed. They not only liked him; they seemed to adore him. He broke into a flirty grin directed towards the audience and heard the noise level go even higher.

After the shouting had calmed a bit, Caesar said, "Well, all right, we know about your ladies. Tell us about your family."

Great. Naturally a question like that had to ruin his vibe. His family. What was there to say about his family? He hated his stepfather. His stepbrother Saffron hated him, even if he wished they would get along. And poor Maman was sick. "My family," he said. "Oh, you know, the normal District One bunch. Very ordinary. Especially in comparison with some of the lovely ladies I have met coming here." There. That was smooth. Sort of.

If Caesar noticed the slight awkwardness of Sage's transition, he didn't show it. "Oh-ho, the lovely ladies here? Tell me more, Sage…"

* * *

"Ohmygosh, did you hear what he said?" squealed Issy, clutching her heart and heading towards where Towhee and Maggie sat. Traditionally, tributes were supposed to stand in line and patiently wait for their turn to be interviewed, but Issy didn't care too much. Socializing calmed her nerves. And the truth was, Issy was nervous. And not just nervous about her interview—nervous about everything. Interviews, after all, meant the Games were almost here.

"He's just so handsome!" declared Towhee, referring to Sage, of course.

"I know!" Issy agreed.

"And_ sooo_ charming!" added Towhee.

"I bet he's kind, too," Issy said rather thoughtfully.

"And he's handsome!" squealed Towhee.

"I know!"

"I know!"

The pair momentarily stopped squealing and stared expectantly at Maggie, who up until then had been staring off into space by herself. Noticing the eyes on her, Maggie jarred herself out of her thoughts and blurted out awkwardly, "He, um, his voice is the color of peanut butter?"

Silence. Then, worrying that Maggie and Towhee wouldn't like her if she wasn't a good conversation-maker, Issy happily agreed, "Yes, Maggie! But he's better than peanut butter!"

"I know!"

"I know!"

And the squealing carried on.

* * *

Finally, Sage's interview was over. Now it was her turn. She was going to show the audience what a real Career looked like. None of that stupid flirting or whatever—okay, maybe a little. It was important to be desirable. But, she reminded herself, it was even more important to take these Games—and what they meant—seriously.

She caught her reflection in a polished glass window and adjusted her hair, which had been piled up into a tight knot and lightened to a silvery blonde shade, instead of its natural dirty blonde color. Her stylist had dressed her in a floor-length, sleeveless blue dress and silver high heels. It was rather modest, and perhaps it wasn't as flashy as Spark's, but her dress made her look elegant and poised, the way she actually was.

She glided into the room, not energetically waving at the cheering Capitolites but rather gracing them with a nonchalant smile.

"Aisis!" greeted Caesar. "Why, doesn't someone look stunning tonight?"

She sat down and daintily crossed her ankles. "Caesar, isn't it rather arrogant to refer to yourself in such a way?"

Caesar laughed, in his hearty, over-exaggerated way, as did the audience. "Thanks! I do look nice tonight, don't I? I'm trying out a new diet." He stood to the sign and sucked in his stomach. "But anyway, I was referring to you! You look spectacular tonight! I think our viewers definitely agree!" The audience hooted louder, as if to confirm this.

"Well, thank you." She smiled, not looking at Caesar but towards Panem.

"All right, Aisis, let's cut to the chase," said Caesar, transitioning into a less light, more businesslike tone. "I suppose I'll ask you what all of Panem must be wondering." Aisis nodded, expecting some sort of serious question about her strategy in the Games.

"Are you single?" asked Caesar. The audience laughed.

Aisis laughed, just a little bit. Of all questions! "Actually, no," she answered lightly. She sought out a camera and stared directly towards it. "Love you, Trenton!" She blew a kiss. _Not_, she thought in her head. Trenton Quin, her boyfriend, was the mayor's son and pretty much the richest boy in all of District Two. It was really the only reason why she was dating him, but nobody needed to know that.

"Ah, well, there goes the hearts of many men!" sighed Caesar dramatically. When Aisis said nothing to that—no flirty banter or anything, Caesar finally decided to bring up the actual Games. "So, Aisis, what are your thoughts on the Games that are coming up?"

She smiled. Now was the time to wow. "I'm not too worried," she said confidently. "The competition this year seems like nothing. I've been training for this all my life, and I've never felt more ready."

"Oh, I think we all know that. Your score, for example, was very impressive—the highest, really!" said Caesar.

"Well, I'm not allowed to tell you what I did, but that just goes to show you what I'm capable of," she said with a smirk. "And in the Games, I'll show you even more. I'll ensure that these Games will not be boring. And there will be plenty of blood."

Caesar nodded approvingly. "Well, you seem like one we should definitely watch for." The buzzer rang, signaling that her interview was over.

Aisis glided back out, very satisfied with how that had gone. She was sure to get sponsors now—this interview coupled with her score. And Caesar hadn't even asked her anything about Sheri, the one topic she would have been uncomfortable with. Sheri, her older sister, the one that had been killed in a previous Hunger Games. But Aisis wasn't going to die. She was sure to win.

* * *

"Moshe, your interview's almost next, right?" asked Spark, sliding over onto Aisis's vacant seat and scooting closer to Moshe.

"Yeah," he whispered back.

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

Moshe looked at Spark, with her sweet-smelling hair and innocent wide green eyes and long, long eyelashes. She was so close! "N-no," he stammered.

Spark giggled. "You're cute, Moshe. Of course you're not nervous. You're so nice and strong…"

There was a cough from above. Aisis had come back and was raising an eyebrow at Spark, as if to say, _You're in my seat_. Spark shrugged and bounced away. Moshe sat in his seat for a moment before it hit him. _If Aisis is back, that means it's my turn!_ Practically jumping out of his seat, he hurried over to the podium, where Caesar was waiting. Thankfully, Caesar had filled up the space with some corny jokes, and no one seemed to have noticed the delay. Thank goodness for Caesar Flickerman.

"Moshe, finally! Pleased to meet you," said Caesar, shaking his hand firmly. "How are you feeling tonight?"

"Pretty good, Caesar," he replied, even though he actually felt a little uncomfortable dressed in his stiff black suit and blue bowtie. It really wasn't his scene. And he was just a tiny bit nervous. He wasn't like other Careers, who seemed to like things like dressing up and spotlights.

"All right, let's begin this," said Caesar. "What's your strategy for the Games?"

"To win," Moshe replied, repeating out loud what he'd been telling himself for the past six years or so. His voice grew more confident as he added, "I can win. I'm going to win."

The audience cheered a bit at that. When they had calmed down, Caesar asked, "Well, Moshe, there are twenty three other tributes who probably think the same thing. What makes you think you can?"

"Because I want it more than anyone else. And I'll do anything to win," he answered. That was true, completely true—no matter what his parents thought. "It doesn't even matter what the Gamemakers try to do. Whatever weapons they give me, whatever arena. Unlike other Careers, who usually are extremely good with one weapon, I'm skilled with all of them. I can adapt and win." Perhaps he was exaggerating; while he could use many different kinds of weapons, he wasn't extraordinarily skilled. But his mentor had told him that arrogance was desirable. And it seemed like his mentor was right, as the audience was screaming louder than ever.

They discussed strategy for a while. Then Caesar asked, "Well, you seem very talented, Moshe. Now, what are your thoughts on the competition?" Before Moshe could answer, planning to say something on the strength of the Careers and how everyone else should watch out, Caesar went off on a completely different tangent. "Is there anyone who particularly catches your eye? We all saw your exchange with Spark back there." He pointed at the area where all the other tributes sat. Spark waved.

Oh, great. Moshe, admittedly, was not that great with girls and girl talk—at least not the way Sage was. "Ah, well, she treats everyone like that."

"Everyone? Are you sure? What if she's special to you?" The audience shrieked and clapped—even louder than they had for Moshe's statements on his strategy. They seemed to just adore the romantic drama.

"Well, she's definitely a special one," he said, trying to sound like Sage: lighthearted, flirty, charming and casual.

"And you seem like a special one too." Caesar said conclusively with a flourish, sensing that the time was almost up. "Moshe Hemlock!" The buzzer rang, just in time. The interview was over.

* * *

Unlike Moshe, who had almost been late, Isis Leith showed up for her interview almost immediately. The moment Moshe was gone, Issy was there, entering quickly and nervously fidgeting once she took her seat.

It wasn't so much of because she was eager but because she was anxious. She wanted to get this done and over with. She didn't feel assured about her abilities, and she hated her outfit. Ugh, fashion. That was the only thing that the Capitol seemed to have backwards. She was dressed in a knee-length, very frilly pink dress with puffy sleeves. Her hair had been pulled into an odd array of braids with yellow ribbons, and her cheeks were dusted an unnatural pinkish-purple.

"Why, if it isn't Isis Leith!" greeted Caesar.

"Um, yeah, my real name's Isis Leith, but it's okay, everyone—well, not everyone but all my friends and stuff—um, they call me Issy, and you can too," she stammered, speaking much more quickly than she had intended to. Stupid nerves.

"Well, Issy, it's good you consider us your 'friends and stuff,'" said Caesar, trying to ease the awkwardness. The audience laughed. Issy was surprised that Caesar could understand her, but she supposed that Capitol accents were stranger and more difficult than any speed she could speak in.

"How do you like the Capitol, Issy?" Caesar asked, his tone relaxing and gentle. (Well, as relaxing and gentle as a Capitol accent could be.)

"It's very nice here," she said, trying to speak a bit more slowly. This attempt, however, was not very successful, and her words came out rather blurred together. "Like, um, there are lots of celebrity magazines lying around, and the food is very good. I'm not really, uh, like a foody person, but you'd have to be crazy not to like it, and coming here I've met a lot of nice other tributes…" She cut herself off when she realized she was rambling. "So, um, yeah, I like it. But it's different."

"Oh yes, of course it's different. But in a good way!" Caesar declared. The Capitol obviously agreed with these statements because they cheered—actually cheered, and for her! This wasn't too bad, Issy realized. She just had to compliment them, and be nice, and agree along with all the things they expected her to agree to. Then the viewers would like her.

"A very good way, Caesar," she said with a nod. "Everything here is much better than anything else I've ever experienced. And I'm sure that the Games will be amazing too!"

"So, Issy, you're not too nervous?" asked Caesar.

She paused at this. What did they want to hear? Of course, confidence was nice, but since she was from District Three, would they expect a more worried response? "Um, well, I'm a little bit nervous. But I'm going to face it, you know?" There. That made her sound brave but not unrealistically optimistic or stupid.

Caesar nodded. The rest of the interview went along in a similar way. Issy tried to relax and smile and sound brave and gain sponsors, until finally, her three minutes ended. She had survived. And it was over. She only hoped that they had liked her—she had tried so hard to please them. They had to like her, right?

* * *

"Found an ally yet?" Teal asked Antebellum. She took the tribute's stony silence as a no. "Antebellum, you really have to find one. And soon."

"I'll find an ally in my own time," huffed the girl.

"Newsflash! The Games are tomorrow, Antebellum. You really have to start taking this seriously!" scolded Teal. She was furious. After all, she didn't want the girl to die, no matter what a brat she was, and she genuinely thought that an ally was probably the only way Antebellum could survive, even if only for a few extra days.

She huffed and turned away. "You can't make me. Besides, any day now, Father is going to rescue me. Father can find a way around this … there's no way I'm going to get thrown into an arena w-with dirt and mud and—"

Teal had to restrain herself from hitting the idiotic girl. "Your daddy is not going to save you, Antebellum. Sorry, but you have to get out of this one yourself. And you might even have to get dirty, or chip a nail."

She seemed horrified at the prospect and started shaking her head vehemently. "No, no, that's not going to happen, this is not real. It's not going to happen … not going to happen." For once, the snooty tone had left, and she seemed genuinely frightened.

Teal sighed. "Yeah, it is going to happen. But if you find an ally, maybe you won't have to get dirty, you know. It'll be someone watching your back and helping you out…"

"Like a servant!" exclaimed Antebellum all of a sudden. "Someone who'll do my dirty work for me! I can pay them if needed, but who wouldn't want to be my ally anyway? What an amazing idea! I'm amazing! I'm so glad I thought of it myself…"

Her mentor rubbed her head. At least she was finally listening. Sort of. But seriously, Antebellum was driving her nuts. "Get out of here, kiddo," she said, rather grumpily. "You don't want to be late for the interview. And for goodness's sake, please remember what I told you about your angle! Try not to kill anyone? You should be nice and charming, not rude. And whatever you do, don't be yourself!"

* * *

"Antebellum Greyson, what a pleasure it is to see you out here tonight!" welcomed Caesar as soon as she entered. "I don't believe we know each other!"

The girl frowned. She was already in a foul mood because her stylist had dressed her in deep purple, spaghetti-strap dress and strappy black heels. The dress was actually decently designed, and she thought that she looked spectacular in it, but it was made of chiffon! Chiffon! She'd specifically asked for silk! This was her interview after all. And all it took was Caesar's little greeting comment to cause her to forget everything Teal had told her and snap.

"What do you mean you don't know me?" she demanded. "I am the daughter of Henderson Greyson, the richest man in District Five."

To just _pique_ Antebellum's irritation, Caesar laughed. "Ah, of course! I thought your last name sounded familiar! Famous already, huh?"

She scowled. "But I'm more than famous. I'm fabulous. And rich." She flipped her black curls—perfect as always—over her shoulder. To her surprise, Caesar seemed amused. Amused! He wasn't supposed to be amused! He was supposed to be intimidated, and awed.

"All right, all right," said Caesar in mock surrender. "And what is famous, fabulous, rich Antebellum planning to do in the Games?"

"I—" She faltered. She was about to give them her default answer on how her father was going to rescue her, but she was seriously starting to worry. What if her father couldn't? She remembered suddenly remembered what Teal had told her about strategy and how to win and not being herself. Oh, forget it. "I'm going to call my lawyer, that's what," she snapped.

The Capitol shrieked with high-pitched laughter. They were laughing at her! Laughing. At. Her!

She crossed her arms. "It's not funny. I'm being serious!" This, however, only caused them to laugh louder. "Stop laughing at me!" she shouted. But they laughed louder!

When the audience had finally settled down from their completely unnecessary laughing spasm, a half-chortling Caesar asked, "Okay, joking aside, what are you seriously planning to do?"

She was so furious that she thought a vein was going to pop. "I—" she spluttered, her face turning a violent shade of purple to rival the shade of her dress. "I—" As her face got purpler, the laughter seemed to get louder. "I'll show you all!" she yelled. "I'm going to show you all how amazing I am during the Games, you peasants! Oh, you'll see how—I'm going to show you! You're going to regret laughing because the next time I'm here, I'm going to be wearing a silk dress and a crown! Who'll be laughing then, huh? That's right, I _WILL_! As a victor!"

For a short second, there was complete silence. Then the crowd burst into applause.

The Capitol, thought Antebellum, was the craziest group of mongrels that she'd met.

* * *

"Out of my way!" demanded Antebellum, storming back from her interview. She didn't look very happy. In fact, she looked absolutely furious. But when was his tribute partner ever happy? From Aaralyn's perspective, Antebellum's interview hadn't been too bad. Hey, at least she'd made an impression. That was important. He hoped that he could make an impression.

He made his way to the stage, smiling good-naturedly. He was wearing a dark green pullover sweater and black dress trousers, along with a white lab coat. He thought it suited him; he'd always wanted to be a scientist.

"Aaralyn Shimmerhill, what a name!" commented Caesar. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Now, are you going to get mad like your partner if I say that I don't think we know each other yet?" The Capitol laughed at this, and Aaralyn could picture Antebellum's face getting purpler. It made him chuckle.

"What's with the laugh?" Caesar asked in a mock defensive tone. "Is it a sign that you're upset?"

"Nah, it's cool," he responded with a cheeky grin. "I'm just imagining the look on her face after you said that." Antebellum would probably make him suffer later for that comment with another yelling fit. He chuckled again.

"All right, all right, but enough about your District partner. Tell me about yourself, Aaralyn. Like your score, a seven! That's excellent for someone of your District," complimented Caesar.

He beamed proudly. "Well, I'm not allowed to give you details, but I didn't get it the way you probably expected me to—knives and the generic lot. I have different tricks up my sleeve," he said. "So you should watch out for me in the arena."

"Aw, but we can't wait until then!" Caesar complained. "Come on, give us a hint. We promise we won't tell anyone. Right?" The audience shouted and cheered to second this.

Aaralyn laughed and shook his head. "I'm sorry; it's under wraps. After all, my mother raised me to be a good boy."

"Can't you be naughty for once?" prodded Caesar.

He grinned cheekily. "I'm saving that for the Games." His grin grew wider as the Capitolites shrieked and clapped widely at his statement.

"Fine, if that's really all you're telling us," said Caesar with an exaggerated sigh. "Okay then, Aaralyn, how about a more personal aspect of your life? What's waiting for you at home? Friends? Family?" He paused dramatically. "A lover?"

"Well, my father is a very caring man who works at the power plant, and my mom's an amazing cook and brilliant chemist. She wears a coat like this every day!" He gestured towards his lab coat. "My twin sister Rahne's really smart but also super outgoing. And Lotus—he's my best friend, but he's sort of more than that, you know? We've been through a lot." Aaralyn could feel the audience getting bored. They didn't seem to care too much about family life. What they wanted was romance, he supposed. Typical shallow audience.

To confirm his thoughts, Caesar interrupted with, "What about the lover part, Aaralyn, hm?"

He really wasn't sure what to say about his love life. "Ah, well, it's complicated," he said. "And currently sort of nonexistent."

Caesar laughed at that, along with the audience. Some of them could relate. "That's too bad," said Caesar with a chuckle, just as the buzzer rang. "Well, that concludes our interview. Best of luck to you, Aaralyn Shimmerhill!"

* * *

_Be friendly._

_Be charismatic._

These were the words circling around in Evie's mind as her interview came closer and closer. She wasn't friendly or charismatic—not at all—and the thought of having to be so perky and pleasant to people that were practically sending her to her death rather disgusted her. She normally didn't care what people thought about her, but this was the Games.

_Be clever._

That she could do. And Evie was practical and realistic. She needed these people. That was why she was dressed in this ridiculously short black dress. Her hair was in a ponytail, which wasn't too bad, except for the fact that her stylist had used enough gel to drown a small animal—or at least control her bangs. It was odd having her fringe neatly patted down because it was normally completely unmanageable. Very odd. And unnatural.

"And now, please welcome Evie Wolfe!"

She entered the stage, smiling at these people with their ugly, unnatural faces and annoying high-pitched accents.

"Evie, wonderful to meet you!" Caesar's voice was too loud and so false. What lies.

She smiled. "It's lovely to meet you too, Caesar! How are you tonight?"

"Hey, wasn't I supposed to be asking the questions?" He laughed at his own joke, and Evie had to refrain from wincing as the Capitolites joined in with their squeaky glee. Instead, she giggled along.

"Okay, just trying to be polite!" she said teasingly. "Why are you getting mad at me for being polite?"

"Oh no, another question!" groaned Caesar. More of that squeaky giggling. "Okay, you win just this once, so I'll answer your question. I'm doing very fine, thank you. And how are you, Evie?"

She particularly hated the way Caesar said her name—stretching out the vowels in that hideous accent. She disliked her name enough without having these accents make it worse.

"Oh, just delightful tonight," answered Evie with another smile. "I'm very excited for the Games tomorrow."

"Excited? And why is that?" asked Caesar.

"I suppose you expect me to be scared," she said. "But I actually can't wait. I grew up in a small, boring village with an unexciting life where the best future I could have was to be a simple housewife and raise children." A complete, blatant lie. But she heard sympathetic coos from the audience and knew that her angle was working. "Anyway, the Games are an opportunity. And I'm ready, Caesar. I'm not afraid to get dirty out there." She paused. "Or kill." She grinned wider, a wicked glint in her eyes as the audience exploded with cheers.

"That's wonderfully inspiring, Evie," commented Caesar warmly. "And how are you planning to do this?"

She had to refrain from rolling her eyes. Wasn't that obvious? She had just told them that she wasn't afraid to get dirty and kill. "Oh, well, you'll see it all in the Games," she said in a tone of mystery and self-confidence. She didn't want to make it sound like she was just making excuses. "You'll see me at the bloodbath, for sure. And not as a death. As a killer."

The audience cheered wildly. The rest of the interview went on a similar path before ending. Her angle had worked out flawlessly. She'd definitely convinced all of Panem that she was someone to watch out for. And if they hadn't learned, then, well, they would soon enough. Because she hadn't been lying when she'd told them about her views on killing and the bloodbath. She had been completely honest.

She gave a cold stare to the other tributes as she came back and took her seat, and not only because she was tired of smiling.

_Watch out for me._


End file.
